


Second Star To The Right

by Marblez



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Hate Crimes, M/M, Murder, Past Sexual Abuse, Pre-Slash, episode tag: s02e04 Neverland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-05 20:18:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marblez/pseuds/Marblez
Summary: An investigation into a runaway boy, a dead journalist and an escaped convict brings the past, a past he had struggled so long to bury, back to the surface for Detective Sergeant Peter Jakes...(This story was written as part of the November 2018 challenge on ‘Rough Trade’ and  is set during Season 2, Episode 4 "Neverland" of Endeavour.)





	1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer –** Simply put, I own nothing. I’ve just borrowed them for a little bit.

 **Summary** – An investigation into a runaway boy, a dead journalist and an escaped convict brings the past, a past he had struggled so long to bury, back to the surface for Detective Sergeant Peter Jakes...

 **A/N –** This story was written as part of the November 2018 challenge on ‘Rough Trade’ and is set during Season 2, Episode 4 "Neverland" of Endeavour.

 **Warnings –** Child-Abuse, Sexual-Abuse, Discussion-Murder, Hate Crimes, Pre-Slash, Canon-Typical-Violence

** SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT  
** **CHAPTER ONE**

_“You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.” – C.S. Lewis_

**1950.**

It had been an accident.

The fire, that is.

Peter hadn’t _meant_ for it to happen.

It just had.

“That _freak_ tried to kill me!”

“Colin! Please! He’s just a boy!”

His parents, well, his mum and his step-dad, had been arguing ever since.

His real dad was buried somewhere in France, one of the many “ _glorious dead_ ” that never made it home from the war. Peter couldn’t remember him; he’d only been four when he’d been killed, one of the many brave men lost during Operation Overlord, and before that his father had been away on Home Duties. His older siblings remembered him coming home on leave a couple of times but Peter, the youngest, had no recollection of these alleged visits.

_“He set my car on fire!”_

“I know, but…Colin, please calm down…”

_“Whilst I was inside it!”_

Peter flinched as the plate of sandwiches which had been resting on the counter was flung across the room, smashing against the wall with a loud crash, and pressed himself back into the small space between the large kitchen table and the corner of the room, trying to make himself as smaller target as possible. His siblings, he knew, would be hiding in their rooms.

He hadn’t meant to set Colin’s new car on fire.

Honestly he hadn’t.

He still didn’t understand how he _had_.

Until today the extent of his power had been lighting the candle in the bedroom he shared with his older brothers and even that had been difficult, requiring all of his concentration.

He was the only mutant in his family.

Well, the only one that had owned up to it, anyway. 

The doctors that were all over the wireless talking about people like him, about mutants, had said that the condition was like any hereditary disease; if one family member had it then the likelihood was that others did to. It could skip generations, supposedly, but his mum had admitted to him the first time she’d caught him playing with fire on his fingertips that his dad had been able to breathe underwater so he knew where he had gotten it from.

“Come out here you disgusting little _freak_!”

A hand grabbed hold of his wrist, dragging him out of his sheltered position.

Peter was small for his age, his appearance more like that of a nine-year-old than a twelve-year-old, due to being born a month too early and then growing up with little or nothing to eat and his cantankerous step-dad never had any trouble pushing or pulling him around.

Today was no different.

A second hand grabbed hold of his shirt, lifting him up off of his feet.

“Colin! Don’t!”

His mum’s desperate attempts to get her husband to release him went easily ignored.

Peter kicked his feet desperately as he was lifted higher and higher off of the ground, the collar of his shirt tightening and choking him, and his trembling hands clutched desperately at his step-dads strong forearm. Tears flooded out of the corners of his wide eyes when his body came to an abrupt halt, hanging in the air with his face level with that of his step-dad.

“What do you have to say for yourself, _freak_?”

The rancid scent of stale alcohol washed over him, causing him to gag loudly.

This was not the correct response.

Colin raised his hand, the one not holding him up by his shirt, and prepared to strike him.

“No, Colin!”

His mum, who suffered just as much under his strong hands when his temper was up, launched herself forwards in order to stop him, literally hanging from the raised arm.

“Get off me, woman!”

“Don’t hurt him!”

Peter could do nothing but hang there, his body jostling with every movement Colin made as he attempted to free his arm from her grip, until suddenly the firm grip on his shirt was released and he plummeted towards the floor, his feet giving out on impact which sent him slumping over to one side, his hip screaming in pain as it connected with the hard floor tiles.

“Peter!”

“Stay _back_ , woman!”

The hand returned to his shirt, this time only dragging him up by a couple of inches as Colin leaned over him, his broad shoulders blocking everything else from sight. Peter whimpered.

“You will answer me if you know what’s good for you, _freak_.”

A pause.

A shuddering breath.

“Did you use your… _powers_ …to set my car on fire?”

A second whimper.

“Peter…”

His mum sounded so worried.

“Yes,” he finally answered. “Yes, I did.”

A hard glint he’d never seen before entered Colin’s eyes.

“And did you know I was in the car at the time?”

He had.

It was what had made him so…angry…

They were starving.

There were leaks in the roof.

The rent was late.

Their clothes were threadbare.

And he had wasted his money on a _new car?_

Slowly, fully aware that this would not go down well, he nodded.

The explosion of rage was entirely predictable.

The burst of flames that knocked Colin into the wall opposite was not.

All Peter had done was instinctively bring his hands up to protect his face.

He hadn’t thought about his powers.

He hadn’t thought about fire.

In fact he hadn’t been thinking about anything but how much it was going to hurt.

“Pe- _Colin_!”

His mum was torn, worried about both of them, but in a rather telling moment hurried to her husband’s side, her hands fluttering over his unconscious form for a moment before grabbing a tea towel in order to pat out the flames which had spread out across his clothes.

Peter gaped, slack-jawed, at his step-dads crumpled form.

His exposed skin was covered in burns, black and red, his eyebrows were missing entirely and his clothes were still smouldering despite his mum’s best efforts to pat out the flames.

Gut clenching suddenly Peter could do nothing to hold back the contents of his stomach, whimpering pathetically as he vomited down his front and onto the floor in front of him.

“Peter…”

His mum sound horrified.

Frightened.

Tears flooded down his pale cheeks.

Slowly he lifted his eyes away from his own mess to meet her penetrating gaze.

“…what have you done?”

~ * ~

It was his mum who called the police.

And an ambulance.

And a fire engine.

All because of him.

They arrived in a convoy of vehicles.

The fire engine arrived first, its half-a-dozen occupants springing into action to deal with the car still blazing in front of their house, a small cottage on the edge of town, and by the time the ambulance had arrived next the worst of the fire had been contained and subdued.

The police car had arrived immediately behind the ambulance.

“Ma’am? Can you tell us what happened here?”

“My son. He’s a mutant. A fire starter.”

As one the three policemen, two in uniform, one in a suit, turned to look at Peter where he had moved to sit at the kitchen table, his hands clenched in his lap as his tears continued to fall. Their concerned gazes hardened upon hearing her explanation and one of the men in uniform immediately took out his handcuffs. The one in a suit nodded, granting permission.

“On your feet, lad.”

Peter obeyed.

His hands were pulled behind his back, at which point the policemen seemed to realise that the cuffs were far too large for his thin wrists. After a brief pause he improvised, fitting both of his wrists into one manacle, and secured the second cuff to the back of Peters thin belt.

They took his mums statement.

The ambulance men took his step-dad away.

The firemen finished putting out the blaze and left.

And then, finally, the policemen took Peter away.

His mother didn’t say goodbye.

His siblings watched from the windows, too frightened to come down.

He wept all the way to the station.

They kept him there in a cell for three days, the cells on either side of his occupied by a murderer and a violent thief, before he was finally put before a judge in a court of law.

It took them fifteen minutes to find him guilty of arson and grievous bodily harm.

His status as a mutant only furthered his guilt in their eyes.

Mutants had a complicated history.

They’d been around since the time of Ancient Egypt, appearing in numerous wall paintings unearthed in the 1930’s, but had only been given legal rights as an individual in 1919. For the many hundreds of years before that they had been subjugated, treated as possessions and tools and had had little or no rights to a life of their own. Even now hate crimes against mutants were painfully common and if a mutant was accused of a crime they would 9/10 be found guilty, the public perception still being that mutants were dangerous and a threat.

Never mind the amount of mutants that had laid down their lives during both the Great War and the Second World War, using their gifts to save others above themselves. Unfortunately Hitler had loved mutants, loved their “magical” abilities, and mutants in Nazi Germany had been rewarded for their contributions to their countries war effort, willing or not. This had lead to a resurgence of hatred towards mutants, people believing that if a mass-murderer like Adolf Hitler approved of them then they were something to be feared and controlled.

The judge banged his gavel once, calling for silence before he revealed Peters sentence,

“Peter Jakes, you have been found guilty of arson and grievous bodily harm. You will be taken from this court to Blenheim Vale, a young offender’s institution that specialises in dealing with your kind, where you shall serve out a sentence of five years for your crimes.”

His mum didn’t come to see him.

He was taken from the courtroom, put in the back of a police car, and taken to hell.

~ * ~


	2. Chapter Two

** SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT  
** **CHAPTER TWO**

_“God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December.” – J.M. Barrie_

**1966.**

Years spent in and out of institutions designed to “correct” the “errors of his ways” had Peter responding to his alarm clock not by ignoring it, as most would, but immediately throwing off the covers and rising from his bed, stretching his arms above his head in an attempt to get rid of the aches and pains in his back caused by his tired, lumpy mattress.

A particularly loud pop from his lower back brought with it a feeling of relief, a large chunk of the unpleasant pressure within his spine easing off, and a brief spark between his fingers.

Hissing sharply, annoyed with his lack of control even after all these years, Peter brought his arms down in order to shake out the offending digits, watching as the sparks finally ceased.

He shouldn’t still have moments of “accidental usage” as they were known colloquially.

Teenagers who had just gone through puberty and discovered their powers?

Yes, all the time.

At least a quarter of his call outs during his first year in a police uniform had been to help contain a teenager struggling to regain control of whatever gift their DNA had given them.

Detective Sergeants who were reap idly approaching their twenty-seventh birthday?

No.

Absolutely not.

He should have complete control over every aspect of his power by now.

Cursing under his breath he reached out to draw the curtains back, flooding the room with the light of the sun rising slowly into the sky. It was still early, just as he liked it, and as he watched the milkman appeared at one end of the road, the postman appearing at the other.

Satisfied that his Monday morning was progressing as it should, his routine a blessing that he relied upon, he crossed to his wardrobe and set about selecting his outfit for the day; a crisp white shirt, smart black trousers with twin creases pressed into the legs, a matching black jacket cut to flatter his trim frame, a thin black tie as was the current fashion, a clean white handkerchief to be folded into a square for his jacket pocket and black leather shoes.

None of his clothes were outrageously expensive, that simply wasn’t possible on his salary, but everything was carefully selected when he lurched new clothes and looked after with the greatest of care. Having grown up in little more than rags, from his early childhood at home to his time spent in the institutions, having clothes that he liked to wear was a treat.

This was why he’d been so annoyed when Morse had got blood all over one of his shirts.

Well, no, not the entire reason.

Part of the reason.

Most of his annoyance that day had been an act, hiding the worry he had felt for his fellow police officer and mutant after the other man had been stabbed by a suspected murderer.

Detective Inspector Morse, first name a mystery, was everything that Peter longed to be.

Intelligent.

 _Ridiculously_ intelligent.

Confident and competent.

Respected.

And, most importantly, completely in control of his mutation and proud of his abilities.

Admittedly the younger man had had it slightly easier, his gift of angels wings and the power of flight being looked upon as a gift from God unlike Peters ability to create and control fire, a sure sign of the Devil residing inside of him, but he still envied him for his obvious content.

Morse was _happy_ to be a mutant.

Peter, on the other hand, would have done _anything_ to just be normal again.

He was better now.

He knew that he wasn’t a _freak_ , that he wasn’t predisposed to violence and a lifetime spent hurting people wasn’t in his future unless he willed it into being, but still there were days when he could feel the flames burning below the surface, fighting to get out, threatening to destroy _everything_ he had worked towards, that he still longed for a simpler, ordinary life.

Outfit laid out on his bed, a bed that he had quickly remain to pristine perfection, he slipped out of his bedroom and into the bathroom so that he could complete his morning ablutions.

He relieved himself and, after flushing the toilet, moved to the sink to wash his hands.

His reflection gazed out at him from the mirror.

Sleep had done nothing to reduce the dark shadows under his eyes, making them appear even more sunken than they really were, and his blue-grey eyes were slightly bloodshot.

This, he knew, was due to the alcohol he had consumed the night before.

His dark brown hair hung limply around his face, reminding him that he really needed to get it cut, and after drying his hands on the small hand towel the first thing he did was take up his comb so that he could wrestle the chaos back into some semblance of order and control.

It didn’t suit him, really, to wear such a deep parting and smooth all of his hair back from his face, securing it in place with an unpleasantly think layer of product that left his hair looking greasy and unwashed. This was, however, how he’d been taught to wear his hair as a child and he lacked the required self-confidence to try something different after such a long time.

Hair dealt with he washed his face and then set about removing the thick layer of stubble that had grown overnight, wielding the shaving foam and straight razor efficiently until he was clean shaven once more. He’d tried using a safety razor for a while but had eventually reverted to using a straight razor, preferring the closer shave that he was able to achieve.

Lastly he brushed his teeth, scrubbing so hard that his gums bled a little bit.

Ablutions completed he returned to his bedroom and dressed, pulling on each item of clothing with quick, precise movements until he stood in front of his mirror fully dressed.

He’d finally grown into his height, standing at an impressive 5’11” which allowed him to tower above almost everyone he knew, but he hadn’t broadened out at all, not even his shoulders, and so he sometimes had the appearance of having been stretched in a rack.

In fact the only people he still had to look up to were Detective Inspector Thursday and one of the uniforms, Police Constable Strange, but even then it was only by a couple of inches.

Morse was shorter than him, in the traditional sense at least, but if you factored in the height of his wings when they were folded in to his back then he towered over everyone.

Tugging on the bottom of his jacket he nodded, satisfied with his appearance, and headed to the front door of his small flat, unlocking it and slipping out into the stark hallway, quickly making his way down the two flights of stairs until he was at the front door of the building where the milkman had left the residents bottles of milk in their assigned boxes on the step.

Grabbing his bottle and his neighbours, a habit he had slipped into after realising that his elderly neighbour struggled to descend and ascend the stairs first thing in the morning, he made his way back up to his flat, placing Mrs James’ bottle in front of her door as he passed.

Unlike his first couple of flats his current residence had an almost ridiculously tiny kitchen in a separate room rather than a simple kitchenette tucked into the corner of the main room.

Despite its size he recognised the kitchen for the luxury that it was.

Making himself a cup of tea, strong with only a dash of milk and absolutely no sugar, he then set about making himself a couple of slices of toast, covering both with an almost obscene amount of butter and thin cut orange marmalade, his breakfast treat of choice.

He made sure to place a napkin on his lap to catch the inevitable crumbs.

Cleaning up after himself he moved into the front room, picking up his watch from where it lay beside his cigarettes on the coffee table, securing it around his wrist whilst checking the time so as to make sure that he wasn’t running late. He wasn’t; he was running to schedule.

This meant that he had enough time for a cigarette before he needed to leave.

Smoking was a habit he had picked up in his last correctional institution, a simple release, originally using a box of matches and then a lighter to get his fix of tobacco and nicotine.

Back then he’d been coming off of the experimental suppressants they’d used on him when mutants had pretty much no legal rights, reducing his powers to just the feeling of burning under his skin, and so one of the first things he had begun practicing when his powers had returned was lighting his cigarettes with a snap of his fingers, using his thumb like a lighter.

It was those suppressants and the years that he’d been on them that were the root of his control issues regarding his powers, the damage they had done leaving him vulnerable.

Yes, he _could_ control his powers.

But, and this was the dangerous part, he could and did still lose control of his powers.

Mostly it was small stuff, his fingers sparking when his emotions were heightened in any way, but occasionally it was worse than that, particularly when he felt angry or threatened.

He’d set a suspects arm on fire once, as a PC, when he’d been held at gunpoint.

Ironically, or so he thought, he’d received a commendation for his “exemplary use of his gift to control the situation and take down the suspect” and it had contributed to his promotion.

No one had ever found out that it had been a complete accident.

Sitting in his comfortable armchair, a leftover from the flats previous occupant, he smoked his cigarette in silence. He wasn’t one for music, like Morse who was obsessed with opera of all things, and could happily spend an evening in complete silence, alone with his thoughts.

Sometimes that wasn’t healthy, however, given that his thoughts weren’t always pleasant.

Voices from the past…

His mother.

His step-father.

The men who…

“No,” he ordered himself out loud, stubbing out the last little bit of his cigarette in the ash tray before rising to collect his black coat from it hook by the door. “None of those thoughts today, Peter. You had a good night’s sleep, without any nightmares or memories. Enjoy it.”

If only fate wasn’t such a cruel master.

~ * ~


	3. Chapter Three

** SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT ** **  
CHAPTER THREE**

_“As Hagrid had said, what would come would come and he would have to meet it when it did.” – J.K. Rowling_

**1966.**

As Peter slipped into the squad room at Cowley CID ( _Criminal Investigations Department_ ) he was met by Morse, his beautiful wings pulled in tightly to his back over that awful coat that he insisted on keeping despite the fact that the thing was literally falling apart at the seams.

“We’ve got reports of a missing boy. Tommy Cork?”

Peter nodded.

He knew the name, mostly due to run ins with the boy’s father who had always struggled to remain on the correct side of the law and was well known for being quick to anger and free with his fists, particularly when it came to how he treated his wife and son. Peter had lost count of the number of times they’d tried to convince Mrs Cork to press charges so it was no surprise to hear that his son had finally had enough and had slipped away in the night.

“Thursday wants us to look into it.”

Again, Peter nodded, distracted by a single feather that suddenly came loose from Morse’s left wing and fluttered to the floor between them. It was perfect, flawless and as white as fresh snow, and so out of place in their current environment. Morse coughed, seemingly embarrassed by what had happened, and hurried to pick up the feather and drop it into the nearest rubbish bin, running his hands over the point in his wings where it had fallen from.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t have time to groom them this morning.”

“No problem,” Peter responded, his gaze finally lifting from the feather resting in the bin. He wasn’t the only one staring at it, either, several of the other policemen currently occupying the room also captivated by such a simple thing. “Who called in the boys disappearance?”

“His mother,” Morse reported, grabbing his notebook from his desk to check. Together they left the room, Morse turning sideways to fit through the doorway in a manner that spoke of years of practice, and made their way out of the back of the station to the car park. “Report says that he went missing a little after ten, walked out the front door and never came back.”

“Right.”

Watching Morse fold himself into the seat behind the steering wheel, his wings ending up in an uncomfortable looking position, Peter was suddenly glad that his mutation was invisible.

He couldn’t imagine going through life with everyone knowing just by looking at him that he was a freak, especially given what his mutation entailed; knowing his luck a visible sign of it would’ve been dragon scales or pure red eyes like he’d once seen on a suspected murderer.

Morse looked like an angel.

He’d probably have ended up look on like the devil.

“Know where we’re going?”

“Bower Gardens. Number five.”

_Bower Gardens._

Such a nice sounding name for such a truly awful place.

A block of flats, that’s where they were going, put up by the council as quickly as possible after the war with little care for how they looked, how the flats were laid out or how they were to be maintained over the years. Peter had been called out to them and the other blocks surrounding them on several occasions when he’d first become a policeman and _Valley Gardens_ , the next block over, was home to a suspected narcotics ring currently being investigated by division that they’d been ordered to leave alone for the foreseeable future.

Oxford was a place of severe contrasts.

There were grand old buildings, luxurious and full of history, owned by the most fortunate and then there were places that were barely fit for habitation, rented by the desperate.

There were scholars, men and women destined for greatness due to their education, and then there were those who had barely completed their O-Levels ( _GCE Ordinary Levels_ ) and were destined for a life of hardship, of barely making ends meet in their dead-end jobs.

There were men and women of honour, such as those that Peter worked alongside, and there were men and women who thrived in a world filled with dishonesty, who decided that the law was there to be broken, such as the criminals that Peter strived to put behind bars.

Retrieving his cigarettes from his jacket pocket Peter cranked the window down a fraction before brushing his thumb against the pads of his fingers, mimicking the action of lighting a match, and a flame appeared on the tip of his thumb. Morse, who before then had been focused on navigating their way through the streets of Oxford, glanced across at his hand.

“…what?”

“Nothing,” Morse mumbled, returning his eyes to the road ahead of them. Peter frowned exhaling the smoke of his cigarette before blowing out the flame on his thumb, just as he would a match. “I’ve just never seen you use your powers like that. Normally your so…”

“You know how it is, Morse,” Peter muttered somewhat gruffly, embarrassed and unwilling to admit the truth, that it was the only use of his power that he could get right every time. “Most practiced motions are the easiest. And don’t miss the next turn; it’s a bit of a bugger.”

It was a bit of bugger, tight and narrow, but it was also a perfectly timed reason to change the subject. Morse navigated the car with practiced ease, managing not to clip the raised curd, eventually pulling into an space on the side of the road nearest the blocks of flats.

Peter could never imagine living in a place like this.

Each block was built around a courtyard, not that it was anything more than a raised area of concrete with a couple of places where you could see down into the overgrown area below, and two sides of the square shape that the design created rested upon worryingly thin columns so that people could access the shared a single staircase in one of the corners.

“Bloody place,” Peter grunted as they began climbing the winding staircase, edging around a woman who was trying to clean one of the levels with a mop and bucket. “It turns my guts.”

He kept his hands in the pockets of his coat, not wanting to risk touching the metal rail.

“Bleach, sweat, boiled cabbage and everything on tick,” he continued, glancing back briefly to make sure that Morse was still following, the younger man having been forced to use his arms to keep his wings tucked in so that they didn’t touch the walls. “Never, never Land.”

Arriving at the correct level Peter used his shoulder to push open the door which took them out onto the narrow external walkway that linked all of the front doors on the second level.

Trusting that Morse would follow him Peter turned left, striding along until he came to the centre door on this floor, noting that the white paint was chipping in several places and that behind the frosted glass the net curtain was torn at the bottom, creating an uneven edge.

Bringing his right hand out of his pocket he wrapped his knuckles on the glass.

A moment later, just long enough for Morse to reach him, the door swung open.

Mrs Cork looked tired and not just because she must have been up all night worrying for her son. No, she looked tired with life, exhausted with everything that the world had thrown her way. Her eyes were shadowed although Peter was relieved to see that there were no signs of any bruises like the last time he’d been called out to this address. He knew that she was only in her twenties but she looked older, much older, in her threadbare clothes, her skin a fraction too tight around her prominent bone structure and her blonde hair dull and lifeless.

Without saying a word she stepped back to allow them inside.

“So what's behind this little jaunt?” Peter asked once they were all stood in the sitting room, tidy but run down already. Morse, quite predictably, was moving around the room looking at everything, sticking his nose in. “Dave take his belt to him again? Give him a leathering?”

He concealed his concern behind his gruff voice, knowing better than to appear soft.

“What does he like doing?” Morse piped up. “Football?”

Peter couldn’t help but snort,

“Putting in windows and knock-down ginger's more Tommy's line.”

This earned him a glare from Mrs Cork and it was actually refreshing to see.

The last time he’d seen her he’d feared that her spirit was entirely broken.

It was good to see that she still had some spirit left.

She might yet have the strength to leave her brute of a husband before he killed her.

Morse, never having met her before, was more focused of Tommy and enquired softly,

“He's keen on dogs, though, yeah?”

“Dave's got his canaries,” Mrs Cork responded, startled. “But it's no pets with the Council.”

After a pause, during which his forehead became creased with a deep frown, Morse turned away from the children’s books about dogs he’d been examining, extending his right hand.

Held between his fingertips and thumb was a piece of fluff.

Or, more specifically, a piece of dog hair.

“I'm not about to go to the housing department, Mrs Cork, but that's not canary moult.”

If anything it was this deduction that seemed to make Mrs Cork deflate, folding down to perch on the arm of the sofa, her hands fluttering nervously over the pinafore she wore.

“He’s been talking about getting a dog for weeks. We told him no. I mean, the council won’t allow it and even if they did we couldn’t afford it,” she explained, her voice trembling. “But then he found this box of puppies someone had left somewhere and brought them home.”

Ah.

“I bet Dave had a thing or two to say about that…”

She nodded tearfully.

“They had a blazing row about it. I was…I was worried Dave would…” she broke off, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of her neck. The movement caused the sleeve of her cardigan to shift, revealing a ring of fresh looking bruises around her wrist. “Anyway…Dave said he would _deal_ with them and Tommy just... _ran_ and I haven’t seen him or the puppies since.”

Both Peter and Morse nodded.

This information filled in a lot of blanks for them, most importantly what had caused him to take off like he had and not come back. Peter had been right about the boys dad being a big factor but Tommy hadn’t been afraid for himself; he’d been afraid for the innocent puppies.

“Thank you for being honest with us Mrs Cork,” Morse murmured with a sincere smile, his wings shifting into a more comfortable position than they had been in before, framing his trim figure in white feathers. “This information could go a long way to helping us find him.”

“Thank you,” Mrs Cork whimpered tearfully. “Dave didn’t want me to call the police, said he’d come back on his own, but he’s never been gone all night before. It’s not like him.”

“We’ll find him, Mrs Cork,” Morse assured her. “I promise.”

And that there, that promise, reminded Peter just how green Morse was.

He would never have made such a promise because in most cases the likelihood was that they wouldn’t be able to keep it; people went missing, for days, weeks, years. Some forever.

“I’m going to ask around, see if anyone’s seen him,” Morse announced as they left the flat, nodding down to where a bunch of kids around Tommy’s age were kicking a ball around. “If he’s gone into hiding with the puppies he might’ve told one of his friends. You never know.”

“Ok,” Peter responded with a nod, checking the time on his watch before continuing. “I’ll have a wander into town, see if anyone’s seen him. Meet you back at the car in an hour?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

They parted ways, Morse spreading his wings out as he approached the group of children in a move that Peter thought made him look like an avenging angel, and Peter headed into town to begin his canvas of the area. It quickly became evident that Tommy hadn’t come this way, no one having seen him, and so as the hour limit approached he turned back.

It shouldn’t have surprised him to find Morse waiting at the car with Tommy but it did.

 _Of course_ he’d be the one to find him.

“Where was he then?”

“Down by the river, hiding out in one of the abandoned caravans with the puppies.”

Said puppies were asleep in their cardboard box which was being cradled in Tommy’s arms, the boy gazing up at Peter with the kind of defiance he’d been expecting and an eye colour he hadn’t been. He shared a startled gaze with Morse who nodded, silently reassuring him that he’d seen the impossible half brown, half blue pupils that Tommy was now sporting.

It wasn’t like he’d seen before, people with different colour eyes.

No, each iris looked as though it had been cut in half and spliced together with another one.

“Tommy,” Peter began softly, frowning. “What happened to your eyes?”

“I don’t know,” the boy responded miserably, biting his lip. “They were normal yesterday.”

“They’re still normal,” Morse assured him, ignoring Peter as he arched an eyebrow in silent disbelief. “It could be that the stress of yesterday has caused a mutation to present early.”

“…d’you mean I could be a mutant? Like you?”

“And DS Jakes,” Morse agreed with a nod. “Have you been tested?”

Testing for the mutant gene had been in its infancy when Peter had been a child but now it was pretty standard for parents to have their children tested so as to arrange for them to attend the correct schools. The test, however, was pretty expensive and wasn’t available through the NHS ( _National Health Service_ ) so there was still a number of children who went untested, like Tommy, and therefore found out the old fashioned way that they were gifted.

“Mum said we couldn’t afford it,” Tommy countered with a shake of his head. “Dad said it was a waste of time as we’ve got no mutants in our family so I couldn’t be one anyway.”

Both reasons were ones that Peter had heard before, even those people who could afford sometimes chose not to if there hadn’t ever been a mutant recorded in their family tree.

“Well, then, it looks like you could be the first,” Morse informed him with a smile. “It can take some time for gifts to fully emerge, however, so don’t expect anything dramatic to happen now that you’ve begun to emerge. Now, DS Jakes and I will take the puppies to the station and see that they’re taken to a shelter after we get you home to your mother…”

“Can I come to the station with you?” Tommy interrupted him. “For the puppies…”

Peter sighed.

He could already tell Morse was going to cave.

“Fine. You can accompany us to the station, see for yourself that the puppies will be taken care of and then we’ll get you home, alright?” Morse’s question was met with an vigorous nod. “Right, into the back with you, then. Here. Let me hold the box whilst you get settled.”

“You know Thursday won’t like this, right?”

“Thursday? He’ll be fine,” Morse muttered as he rounded the car. “Mr Bright, however…”

Peter snorted loudly, unable to contain himself, and Morse hesitated for a moment before slipping into the car, obviously startled by the fact that Peter had let his carefully controlled work mask slip even if only for a moment. He had recovered himself by the time Peter was settled into his seat, starting the engine once he’d got his wings positioned behind him and carefully turning the car around in the narrow road so that they could return to the station.

Getting Tommy to release his hold of the box containing the puppies took a good twenty-five minutes once they’d arrived at the station and made their way through to the kennel where the stations dogs were housed, all of whom eagerly came over to meet the puppies.

“…but what if they’re no good as police dogs? What if they get frightened?”

Morse smiled indulgently down at the distressed boy,

“Then we’ll find good homes for them. I promise.”

Finally, ever so slowly, Tommy handed the box over and then allowed himself to be steered out of the kennels, through the station and into the squad room where Morse eventually sat him at his own desk. Peter was grateful; his desk was ever so precisely organised, everything placed so as to maximise his work efficiency and so the idea of a ten-year-old boy messing it up either purposefully or accidentally made his stomach clench. Morse’s desk, on the other hand, seemed to live in a constant shift between horrifically cluttered and completely bare.

Hosting a child would do his desk no harm whatsoever.

Peter stood to one side, hands tucked into his pockets as he mentally catalogued the age of the bruises he could see on Tommy’s face, neck and hands, whilst Morse and Strange, of all people, fussed over Tommy, making sure that he was comfortable and getting him a drink.

“You found him, then?” Thursday’s voice preceded him into the busy room, a warmth that was reserved only for children creeping into his usually gruff voice. “Has he had anything?”

Strange stood from where he’d been perched on Morse’s desk, shaking his head,

“Canteen's not open yet, sir.”

“Here you go, then.”

Reaching into his jacket pocket Thursday retreated the familiar package wrapped in grease proof paper, holding it out to the ten-year-old who frowned up at it with obvious distrust.

“Mum says I'm not to take anything off strangers.”

“We're not strangers,” Thursday countered sincerely. “We're coppers.”

“Go on, you're in for a treat,” Morse urged him from where he had crouched down at the side of the desk, putting his head level with Tommy’s. His huge wings were tucked in closely again, the bottom tips actually crossing over each other. “It's Monday - cheese and pickle.”

Morse’s reassurance as enough to have him reaching out to take the sandwiches.

“Ok.”

It was instinct, ingrained throughout his childhood, that brought the words tumbling out of Peters mouth when the boy began to unwrap the grease proof paper without saying a word.

If Peter hadn’t thanked his parents or the people in the different institutions he’d ended up in he’d have been slapped or caned for being disrespectful. His hands still bore the scars…

“What do you say?”

“Ah, Thursday,” Superintendent Bright murmured as he entered the room, moving to stand beside the Inspector he’d been looking for. His expression when he caught sight of Tommy was almost comical, his eyes going wide. “Good heavens, what's this? Waifs and strays?”

“Tommy Cork, sir,” Thursday answered. “Young lad who's gone missing from home.”

Bright nodded.

“He's a bit nervous of us, sir.”

“Indeed? There's no need for that,” the deceptively soft-spoken Superintendent sighed, leaning down towards the boy. “Hasn't anyone ever told you, the policeman is your friend?”

“That's not what my dad says.”

Tommy’s tone of voice warned everyone but Bright that he shouldn’t pursue it further.

“No?”

“No,” Tommy agreed before announcing clearly. “He says you're all bastards.”

Someone, potentially Strange, snorted loudly before cutting himself off.

Thursday, thankfully, spoke up to direct the conversation away from Tommy.

“You wanted a word, sir?”

“Yes,” Bright agreed, obviously startled by the ten-year-olds casual use of foul language. “Get him back as soon as possible, Morse. All right? This is a police station, not a creche.”

“Yes, sir.”

Peter stepped out of the way to allow Bright to stride out of the room towards his office, Thursday following behind him once he’d imparted one final bit of wisdom for Tommy,

“See you finish your crusts.”

“I’ll get started on the report, Morse,” Peter murmured, turning away from the sight of the angel offering the boy as reassuring smile. “You can type up your bits once you’re back.”

“Right.”

And that was that.

Case closed.

Or so they thought…

~ * ~


	4. Chapter Four

** SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT ** **  
CHAPTER FOUR**

_“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” – Lewis Carroll_

Peter wanted to go home.

Sliding out of the car when he was told to, his feet crunching on the gravel of the driveway, he gazed fearfully up at the largest building he’d ever seen. It was grey, as though all of the colour had been sucked out of it a long time ago, with imposing windows that seemed to be filled with ghostly shadows. Faces appeared and disappeared, mostly those of boys a couple of years older than him but he also saw a few stern looking adults who glared down at him.

“Don’t forget your suitcase,” the policeman who’d brought him to this awful place grunted from the front seat of the car. Peter reached back in to collect the small suitcase he’d been handed, packed by his mother he’d been told although he hadn’t seen her at all. “Mind your manners. Do as you’re told. Keep your ‘ead down an’ you’ll be fine. An’ no funny business.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In you go then. They’re expecting you.”

The walk from the car to the front door of the dominating building felt much longer than the twelve steps it actually took, his heart pounding painfully within his chest as the door swung open with a loud creak to reveal a strict looking woman in what was easily recognisable as a nurses uniform. Her dirty blonde hair was pulled back under the starched white cap, making her face appear stretched out of shape, and her thick rimmed spectacles made her eyes look too big for her face. In her hands, which seemed almost claw like, she held a stiff clipboard.

“Jakes, Peter Ian. Born, 18th August 1940.”

He nodded, hesitantly, confirming his identity.

“Mutant status confirmed,” she continued, her already cold voice dropping even further. “It says here that you set both your step-father and his car on fire. Is this correct? Answer me.”

“…it was an accident. I didn’t mean to…”

“Be that as it may we can’t have a pyromaniac loose about the place,” she tutted loudly, sneering down at him as she took out a pen from the breast pocket of her uniform and signed her name on the bottom of the sheet. “There. Recommendation for suppression treatment. Put forward by Doctor Fairbridge. Seconded by myself. Come along then, boy.”

Peter was stunned into silence.

He didn’t…

He didn’t know what had just happened…

His feet carried him along behind the as yet unnamed nurse despite the fact that his brain was too jumbled to give a conscious command, his toes dragging with each step forwards.

What…

What was _suppression treatment?_

And why did it send a shiver of fear down his spine, whatever it was?

“I’ll assign one of the boys to look after you for the first week or so,” the nurse announced as she led him up the grand staircase that was definitely showing its age, chips and scratches standing out all along the bannister whilst the carpet was wearing thin. “You will attend the same lessons as the other boys; reading, writing and arithmetic. Each morning you will go for a cross country run before breakfast. Each evening you will help clean the building from top to bottom. Not that you shall be able to but use of mutant powers is _strictly_ forbidden.”

_Not that he’d be able to?_

What did she mean?

Did they know how to…how to make him normal again?

Perhaps if they could make him normal his mum would let him come home…

At the top of the stairs they turned right, heading down a seemingly deserted corridor until eventually they came to a sudden halt beside a plain brown door bearing a single plaque.

_‘Doctor Fairbridge M.D’_

Underneath, tacked up with a single pin, was a piece of paper on which was written,

**KNOCK. WAIT. ENTER ONLY WHEN INSTRUCTED TO.**

Peter jumped when the nurse obeyed the piece of paper, knocking sharply on the door, and then again when a voice from inside the room barked out for them to enter. One of the old hinges needed oiling, he noticed absently as he flinched away from the high pitched squeak.

“Who do we have here?”

“New boy, doctor,” the nurse announced calmly, prodding Peter until he moved to stand in the middle of the room. His eyes fluttered nervously, taking in as much of his surrounding as he could. There was a desk, behind which sat an older man whose hair was beginning to go thin on top, and a number of filing cabinets, cupboards and storage units, someone which were locked with large padlocks. His eyes eventually fell upon the strange bed, pressed up against one of the longer walls, and the tray on medical equipment next to it. “Peter Jakes. You recommend him for suppression treatment due to his dangerous actions towards his step-father. As you can see I have seconded the recommendation so you may proceed.”

A quick perusal of the paperwork being held out to him by the nurse and the doctor nodded.

“Excellent.”

Pushing himself up out of his chair the doctor moved to one of the tall white cabinets, one of the ones sporting a padlock, and set about unlocking it with a key he retrieved from his pocket. Inside were a load of bottles, some containing liquids, others pills and all labelled.

He took out one that bore a black label.

A black label with a white skull and crossbones.

A black label with the word ‘ **POISON’** stamped across it. 

“What are you…?”

“Don’t worry; it’s only poisonous to normal humans,” the doctor reassured him, nodding to the nurse who moved far quicker that Peter was expecting her to, picking him up and laying him down on the bed, face down. He cried out sharply when his shorts and underpants were pulled down to exposed his bum. “Now, I’m afraid this will hurt but it’s for your own good…”

A strong arm pressed down across his back, pinning him in place, whilst its pair pinned his legs to the bed. The nurse, he presumed, as he turned his head to frantically watch the doctor as he picked up a large needle, drawing some of the liquid out of the bottle with it before moving to stand beside the nurse. Peter screamed, trying to get them to stop, and then helped in pain as he felt the needle enter the flesh of his left buttocks, jabbing deep.

“… _there_ we go.”

The burning sensation began almost immediately.

It began at the injection site but spread like, well, life _fire_ until it felt as though he were being burned from the inside out, as though the liquid had turned his powers against him.

Eventually, after an eternity of pain, his vision swam and he knew no more.

~ * ~

“…poor kid…”

“Shh! Let him sleep it off!”

A hand brushed his hair back off of his forehead, gentle yet enough to make him whimper.

It hurt.

His _hair_ hurt.

“His power must be something for him to react like that…”

He flinched, pressing the side of his face into the pillow in reaction to the louder voice.

“Ed!”

“What?”

“Lower your voice!”

Even that final hiss was too much, a flash of white hot pain flaring up behind his eyelids.

“… _hurts…_ ”

“I know,” the gentlest voice murmured in response to his weak cry. He whimpered again when a hand cupped his jaw, the thumb stroking his cheek. “I know it does. But it’ll stop.”

“… _when?_ ”

“Soon,” the voice soothed him. “Soon. Go back to sleep. It helps. I promise.”

Sleep.

Sleep sounded…

“Sleep.”

“… _kay_ …”

~ * ~

It didn’t hurt the next time he woke up.

Sitting up slowly he looked around him, surprised to find that it was dark outside, and found that he was on the bottom bunk of the simple bunk bed nearest the door in the small room.

A glance around the room revealed the fact that the other three beds were occupied, each of the lower bunks containing a boy a little older than him, their skin seeming to glow in the moonlight, and the upper bunks were sagging downwards, their thin mattresses deformed by the bodies occupying them. One of the boys moved, rolling over, and the springs of his bed creaked loudly which caused Peter to jump, his hands clutching at the blanket covering him automatically. In recent weeks this would have led to flames and singe marks on his bedding but now, following whatever that terrifying injection had been, nothing happened.

His bed shook suddenly, the frame creaking ominously as a head appeared over the side.

“Hey.”

The soft voice was familiar even though the face wasn’t.

“You…” he mumbled, frowning in confusion. “You were…”

“You were pretty out of it the last time you woke up.”

He brought his hands up in front of his face.

Nothing.

He frowned at them, hard enough to make his face hurt.

Nothing.

“I don’t…”

“You still in pain?”

“No,” Peter mumbled. “Have they…has it gone?”

“Your powers, you mean?” the other boy clarified, rolling his body down off of the top bunk, landing on his feet with a distinct thud. Peter nodded. “No. They’re not gone. They can’t do that, not yet anyway. They just…stop them working for a bit but they come back. I promise.”

“Oh.”

Peter sounded as disappointed as he felt.

“Wait, you _want_ to get rid of your powers? Why?”

“Are you a…?”

“Mutant?”

“Freak?”

Their voices overlapped, the boy frowning with disapproval at Peter’s choice of words.

“We don’t use that word here, not amongst the boys anyway,” the other boy explained as he moved to sit cross-legged on Peter’s bed, causing the younger boy to hurriedly pull his legs out of the way. “Some of the staff do but we just ignore them; they hate everyone, not just mutants. But, to answer your question, yes, I’m a mutant. A teleport, in fact. Got caught using my powers to acquire other people’s property, those that didn’t really deserve it, you know? Like _Robin Hood_. And no, I don’t want to go back to being _normal_ , as they put it. Why would I? They’re just jealous of what we can do, of the powers we’ve been given. That’s all.”

“…I wouldn’t mind being normal again,” Peter mumbled sadly. “Then I wouldn’t have…”

“Wouldn’t have what?”

“…nearly killed my step-dad…”

His soft words startled the other boy so badly he nearly lost his balance.

“How?”

“I can make fire,” Peter explained, looking down at his hands. “And I don’t always mean to.”

“You’re a _pyrokinetic_?”

The new voice caused both of the boys sat on Peter’s bed to startle, turning to face the boy sitting up on the lower bunk of the bed furthest away from his, tucked into the far corner.

“…a what?”

“It’s a fancy way of saying a fire starter,” another new voice explained, the occupant of the bed above the well-spoken boy dropping down to the floor. “He calls me an _aerokinetic._ ”

Peter frowned.

“What’s that?”

“I can control the air; make it windy when it’s not, move objects with a well-aimed breeze, that sort of thing,” he explained. “Ironically Benny doesn’t have a fancy name for his gift...”

“It’s true,” the well-spoken boy, Benny, agreed. “I can make inanimate objects come to life.”

“…and have you…has that doctor…?”

“We’re all suppressed,” the as-yet-unnamed boy sat on his bed explained. “They suppress all of the mutants that get sent here. But it only lasts a couple of months. Then our powers come back, we try to hide them for a bit, and then they figure it out and start over again.”

“…but it hurt…”

“It hurts us all,” Benny announced. “Some more than others. Depends on how strong your powers are. Ed, he’s a telepath, has it the worst out of all of us; he loses a couple of days.”

Ed, it seemed, was the boy still sleeping on the top bunk of the bed at the foot of Peters.

“Henry claims it doesn’t hurt him at all,” Benny continued, nodding to the boy snoring lightly on the bunk below Ed’s. “Which doesn’t make any sense to me, not if the amount of pain is to do with how powerful our gifts are because he’s a _chlorokinetic_ , he can control plants.”

“Is…is that why his hairs green?”

“Yes,” the boy sat with him chuckled. “His eyes are ridiculously green too.”

“So, new boy,” the boy above Benny called out softly. “What’s your name?”

“Peter. Peter Jakes.”

“Peter?” the boy sat with him laughed suddenly. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Peter.”

“Oh.”

“But I go by Big Pete,” the teleport announced, offering his hand to Peter, holding it steady until the younger boy reached out to shake it lightly. “So how about we call you Little Pete?”

 _Little Pete_.

It made him smile.

He nodded.

“Well, welcome Blenheim Vale, Little Pete. Stick with us and you’ll be alright.”

~ * ~

His five roommates, Peter quickly learned, were the only other mutants currently at the institution had been sent to. The rest of the boys were human, all of them troublemakers. Some had been sent to Blenheim Vale by their own parents, like Benny, but most of them had been sent there by the courts after finding themselves on the wrong side of the law.

Nicholas Mysers, the _aerokinetic_ in the bed above Benny was fourteen, and had been sent to Blenheim after using his gifts to convince his vicar that the church was haunted after the old man had turned the entire congregation against his mother after he’d discovered the truth about Nicholas’ parentage; his mother had had an affair with an American pilot whilst her husband had been serving in North Africa during the war. Both the pilot and his father had been killed in the war leaving his mother with no choice but to move, to start over, lying to her new friends and neighbours and claiming that Nicholas’ father was her dead husband.

Benny Topling was twelve, the same age as Peter, only he was almost a foot taller than him.

His parents had sent him to Blenheim Vale after he’d begun to make his toys and those of his younger siblings come to life, retreating from the world as he became obsessed with creating his perfect fantasy. Life at the institution was particularly difficult for poor Benny.

Henry Portmore, the _chlorokinetic_ with impossibly green hair and eyes, was thirteen and had been “too much for his parents to handle” once his powers had emerged, choosing to focus on his younger sister who hadn’t shown any sign of being a mutant. They had tried to send him to Blenheim Vale but had found the fees to be too much and so had reported him to the police for something that he hadn’t done, ensuring that he be found guilty with their own testimonies so that he would be sent away. He was bitter, understandably, and angry.

George Aldridge, the boy who slept on the top bunk to the left of his, was a thirteen-year-old _electrokinetic_ ; he could control electricity. He was another angry soul. His father had died in the war. His mother had walked out on his when he was five. He’d been sent to live with his grandmother who hadn’t wanted anything to do with him and therefore did very little for him. He’d acted out even before his powers had blossomed. Thieving. Underage drinking. Truancy. And then, after waking up one day and finding that he could create electricity with a click of his fingers, his attempts to get his grandmother to notice him at all had gotten worse. Violent. Dangerous. His arrest had been inevitable, or so he claimed.

And yet, despite all this, he was always nice to Peter and the other younger boys.

Edward Spencer, the telepath, was fifteen and Peter didn’t think he was really there.

His body was, obviously, but his mind…whatever that horrible poison was that they used to suppress their powers had done something to his mind, had turned him into an empty shell. 

He had a sister too, like Henry, and they only knew that because the only times he seemed to come alive were when his parents brought her to visit him at the weekends. Hilary, her name was. He’d ended up at Blenheim Vale because he couldn’t control his powers; he had been able to hear everyone’s private thoughts all the time and had learned some things that powerful people didn’t want to be known. Sending him to the institution kept their secrets.

Timmy McClain was a strange boy.

He was a mutant, or so he claimed, but he wouldn’t talk about his powers.

He shared a room with them but outside of it wanted nothing to do with the rest of them.

He was sixteen, the oldest of all of them, and yet Big Pete was definitely the natural leader.

Peter didn’t know Big Pete’s surname.

He never used it.

Just “Big Pete” or occasionally “BP.”

He was fifteen and whilst Peter, now known as Little Pete, was small for his age Big Pete was tall for his age, standing almost as tall as some of the staff members who ruled over them.

For the first couple of months everything was alright.

It wasn’t good, it could never be good in a place like Blenheim Vale, but it wasn’t bad either.

But then things had changed.

A new man had invested in the institution, buying them new sports equipment and getting involved in the running of the place. He and his friends, supposedly find upstanding men, had offered to be an example for the boys to follow and inserted themselves into the day to day running of Blenheim within a matter of days. Mr Josiah Landesman was his name, the new governor of Blenheim Vale, and his two friends were Mr Wintergreen and Mr Deare.

Or rather, Detective Constable Deare.

Peter didn’t realise what was going on at first.

Some of the boys would disappear sometimes, always from their group; the mutants.

They’d be gone for a couple of hours, always at night, and would come back hurt.

Really hurt.

Especially Benny, who seemed to get picked on more than the others.

But then one day a hand settled on his shoulder as he was leaving the dining hall after their evening meal of potato soup and a single slice of unbuttered bread. He looked up, startled, to find Detective Constable Deare smiling down at him. It wasn’t a nice smile, he realised.

It was cold.

Calculating.

“And who do we have here? What’s your name?”

“Peter,” he answered reluctantly. “Peter Jakes. Sir.”

“Peter. What a charming name,” Deare hummed, his grip tightening on Peter’s shoulder when he shifted his feet. “I believe there’s another boy called Peter. Are you two friends?”

He could only nod in response.

“And are you a mutant, Peter?”

Again, a nervous nod.

“Wonderful.”

That evening as they were getting ready for bed he and Benny were instructed not to get into their pyjamas, rather to meet a car at the end of the institutions driveway. Deare was waiting for them, along with Wintergreen, and they drove the trembling boys out to a hotel.

Peter had thought Blenheim Vale was hell.

He had been wrong.

That hotel room, with Deare and Wintergreen, was hell.

And, unfortunately, it was only the beginning.

~ * ~


	5. Chapter Five

** SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT ** **  
CHAPTER FIVE**

_“Isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?” – L.M. Montgomery_

**1966**

It took him a couple of moments upon waking to figure out what had woken him almost a full hour before his alarm was due to go off, the fog of sleep still clogging all of his senses.

In fact it was only after he’d brought his hands up to rub at his eyes, pausing just in time.

His hands were on fire.

“Shit!”

Concentrating on his hands he managed to force the flames back under the surface where they lived, the burning sensation reducing until it was back to the level he was used to, and then turned his attention to his bedding which, as he expected, was also very much on fire.

Ripping the sheets off of his body he dropped them to the floor, immediately jumping up so that he could stamp them out, coughing as he accidentally inhaled some of the thick smoke.

The flames didn’t hurt him.

They never did.

He did consider, briefly, joining the Fire Service instead of the Police Force but had decided that that would have been tempting fate a little bit too much, what with his lack of control. 

Sweat beaded across his forehead.

The flames might not get to him but the heat certainly did.

That and the strain of getting his powers under control.

And he was pretty certain that he’d been sweating before he’d woken up, his dreams having been haunted by twisted memories of Blenheim. The cause of the flames, no doubt about it.

“There goes another set of sheets,” he sighed regretfully, looking at the charred remains of the top sheet and the black marks covering the bottom sheet still stretched across the bed. It was a good thing he only bought cheap bedding, second hand more often than not, else he’d forever be losing a chunk of his wages to nightmares. “…will they never bloody stop?”

He’d been having nightmares since he _left_ Blenheim Vale as a child.

He was an adult now.

He shouldn’t still be…

He shouldn’t…

“Bloody hell…”

Wiping furiously at his suddenly damp eyes he set about stripping off the rest of the bedding as he knew full well that no amount of scrubbing would remove the stains from the bottom sheet, bundling them up together before carrying them through to the kitchen and pushing them into the almost full rubbish bin, applying pressure in order to crush everything below.

That done he returned to his bedroom to open the window, needing the fresh air to remove the smell of smoke now clinging to everything. A quick glance at his alarm clock confirmed that he still had forty minutes to go before his alarm sounded but knew that going back to sleep would be impossible and not only because of the sudden awakening leaving him even more alert than he normally was first thing in the morning; he knew from what was most probably a rather unhealthy amount of experience that sleep after a nightmare featuring those specific memories, warped by his subconscious or not, was completely impossible.

It would only bring about more vivid nightmares and that he could do without.

With his morning routine already disturbed he went through the motions, getting himself washed, dressed and fed, and then with nothing else to do he headed to work an hour early.

If nothing else he could use the time to catch up on some of is paperwork.

He ended up being so early that when he stepped into the squad room it was still occupied by the men who worked the ever unpopular night shift, each of them using someone else’s desk as their own and trying not to disturb anything as they wrapped up their nights work.

Thankfully the officer who used his own desk was every bit as fastidious as he was.

“Jakes! You’re here early!”

DI Chard, the owner of the voice, wasn’t one of Peters favourite people but he was wise enough to keep the peace between himself and his superiors no matter what reservations he had about them. In Chards case Peter was concerned that he was a fraction too willing to bend the rules in order to get his suspect. Thursday was known for his old school ways, routing up suspects and the like, but he knew that there was a line you didn’t cross. Ever.

DI Chard was known for ignoring that line.

“Sir,” Peter greeted the bespectacled man who was ever so slightly taller than him. Unlike Bright who’s spectacles were merely practical Chard’s were the height of fashion. “I was up earlier than anticipated and there wasn’t much to do stuff home. Thought I’d get caught up with a bit of paperwork once my desk is free. So, anything interesting happen last night?”

“Couple of punch ups, one drunk and disorderly and a stolen car which turned out to be the owners teenage son taking it without permission which he now very much regrets,” Chard answered with a deep chuckle, taking out his packet of cigarettes, offering one to Peter. It would have been rude to refuse, Peter reasoned, and so accepted one. “You got a light?”

There was something calculating in Chards smile as he made the faux-innocent enquiry.

Peter hesitated.

“Only I’m out of matches,” the DI muttered, providing the empty box as evidence. “So…”

“Sure,” Peter agreed reluctantly, sparking up his thumb and offering the flaming digit to the other man, noting that his smile ad gone from calculating to gleeful. Once both of them had lit their cigarettes he tucked his thumb into his palm, snuffing out the flame. “I should…”

“Handy little trick, that,” Chard interrupted him, gesturing to his cigarette before laughing in a manner that could only be described as cruel. “More use than wonder boys wings, at any rate. I heard somewhere that he’s afraid of heights. A guy with wings is _afraid of heights_!”

Peter ducked his head, unsure how to respond.

Sure, Morse sometimes rubbed him up the wrong way or got on his nerves but he was a damned fine detective, better than all of them when it came to figuring out the clues that killers left behind, either deliberately or accidentally. And he was kind, a kind, gentle soul.

Badmouthing him to Chard felt...wrong and so, instead, he said nothing.

“Anyway, you know how it is on night shift,” Chard stated, returning to their earlier subject of conversation. “Most of Oxford actually sleeps at night. It’s you boys that get all the fun.”

“I don’t know about fun,” Peter countered. “Spent yesterday looking for a missing boy.”

“You find him?”

“Morse did.”

His smile transformed briefly into a sneer before he recovered himself,

“Of course, he did. So, this body of yours. The one on the tracks. Interesting case?”

“I haven’t had much to do with it yet, I’m afraid,” Peter answered honestly, looking about him as the various members of the night shift began saying their goodbyes. “I heard he was a journalist, though, so it could be that he stumbled onto a story he shouldn’t have. I expect I’ll be chasing up some of his old stories today to see if he’s covered anything dangerous.”

Chard hummed thoughtfully.

“Well, I should…”

What followed was almost half-an-hour of Peter attempting to politely leave the tedious conversation and Chard refusing to let him go, changing the subject every time Peter tried to excuse himself until finally the younger man gave up and settled in for the duration.

He was laughing at something which Chard seemed to find very amusing when his rescuer arrived in the form of DI Thursday, gruff as always as he moved through towards his office. 

“Oh, here he is, then,” Chard cackled upon seeing his fellow Detective Inspector, his casual manner making Peter feel even more uncomfortable than he already had. Under Thursdays disapproving stare he felt his back straightened, his gaze falling to the ash tray on Peters desk where they’d put the ends of their cigarettes. “What's this, Fred, missed the alarm?”

Chard was the last night shift officer left in the room and his words, spoken in jest, we’re not received well by the men who worked under and reported to DI Thursday, Peter included.

“You'll find yourself in the late book.”

Grateful for the chance to extricate himself from the conversation Peter turned to Thursday,

“Tea, sir?”

Propriety dictated that he then turn back to Chard with the same offer.

“Anything for you, Mr Chard?”

“No. No, you're all right.”

Silently thanking the other man for his negative response Peter hurried away, making his way down the hallway to the canteen which wasn’t open but provided twenty-four-seven tea making facilities. Making himself a cup as well as Thursday he carried them back to the squad room, dropped Thursday’s off at his desk before finally settling down at his own.

Just as he’d suspected his day was spent chasing down some of their victims old leads, looking for any sort of motive, and found nothing more than a couple of minor disputes.

Returning to the station after chasing down his final lead Peter was stopped by a pretty young policewoman before he could get any further than the buildings main entrance.

“Message for you, Sarge.”

Accepting the piece of paper he nodded his thanks to the policewoman and continued on his way, reading the short handwritten note as he made his way along the main corridor.

_Tommy Cork reported missing again._

“Damnit…”

He slipped into the squad room, spotting Thursday approaching Morse and Strange.

“That fatal on the railway,” Morse was saying as he stripped off his coat, grunting with annoyance when it got caught on his left wing before coming free. “You don't remember seeing him talking to Alderman Wintergreen at the Widows and Orphans, do you?”

“No. Sorry, matey,” Strange apologised sincerely. “All I managed to pick up on the bush telegraph is that a certain DI is in for a leg up the greasy. I wish. No, not Thursday. Chard. DCI, if Thames Valley goes through. In operational control of all plain clothes.” Here the uniformed giant of a man paused, chuckling, completely unaware who was behind him. “Oh, the old man won't like that, answering to the likes of Chard. It’ll put his nose right out of…”

“Loose lips, Constable,” Thursday spoke up, making Strange jump up and turn to face him. Morse, cool as ever, reacted with an amused smile. “And less of the old, if you don't mind.”

“Sir.”

Peter stepped forwards, nodding to Thursday as they swapped places.

“The kid's gone AWOL again. Tommy Cork.”

The smile vanished from Morse’s handsome face.

Peter hesitated, taken aback by his own thoughts.

_Handsome?_

Since when…since when did he, even subconsciously, find Morse attractive?

He hadn’t allowed himself to be attracted to a man in…well… _ever._

Not after what had happened at Blenheim Vale…

“From what his mother's saying, his old man's given him a proper larruping.”

A feather, more than one in fact, brushed against the side of his face as Morse’s wings flared open in anger. He apologised at once, ducking his head and getting them back under control as quickly as he could, but the feel of those impossibly soft feathers lingered on Peter’s skin.

“I’ll check the river,” he announced firmly. “See if he’s gone back to his old hiding place.”

“Ok,” Peter agreed with a nod. “Strange. Have a look around the town centre. Look into all the places a ten year old boy might go. I’ll check out the area between those two points.”

Plan of action agreed upon the three of them headed out.

He walked the streets for a couple of hours, to the point that his feet began to throb and his knuckles were beginning to bruise from knocking on doors, but could find no sign of the boy.

Strange had no more luck than he.

And Morse, well, Morse turned a corner and instead of finding Tommy he found a body.

The body, Peter learned upon arriving at the scene, had been found in a pool of water.

Whether or not they drowned remained to be seen.

It was, thankfully, far too large to be Tommy Cork.

Even at first glance the body was obviously an adult, face down in the murky water.

Watching them carefully retrieve the body, rolling it out of the circular pool onto the cloth which they’d laid out precisely for that purpose, Peter was shocked by a sudden feeling of familiarity when he saw the man’s face. He knew the downward tilt of the man’s lips, the shape of his dark brown eyes, the way his ears didn’t lie completely flat…but who was he?

And then, a lead weight suddenly appearing in his stomach, his brain made the connection.

George.

It was _George_.

From Blenheim Vale.

“This absconder from Farnleigh?”

Peter barely registered Brights arrival despite the fact that the Chief Superintendent ended up standing almost directly in front of him alongside Thursday who nodded, grunting softly,

“Looks to be, sir.”

Farnleigh?

George was escaped convict they’d been told to be on the look for?

_George?_

But…

Bright hummed thoughtfully, nodding, before he issued an order loud enough for all to hear,

“I want a thorough search of the surrounding area, starting with those caravans and…”

“Sir,” Morse called out quickly, interrupting his superior officer as politely as possible. “I believe I may have found something in one of the caravans that is relevant to our case.”

After a pause, during which Morse had the good sense to look somewhat apologetic, Bright nodded and instructed the uniformed officers to begin their search while Morse showed the three of them, Bright himself, Thursday and Peter bringing up the rear, what he had found.

It was the same caravan he’d found Tommy in, he explained as he led them to it.

Due to its cramped interior Peter ended up furthest away from the discovery, near the door which was rather fortunate as his stomach was churning ominously as his mind struggled to process the fact that George, who’d always been there to protect Peter, Benny and the rest of the younger boys as best as he could, who had been so angry and yet so kind, was dead.

And not just dead; murdered.

“Do you think the Cork boy took up with Aldridge?”

Lost in his thoughts Peter had missed Morse’s explanation of what he’d found.

“Fish and chips for two.”

“They weren't here yesterday,” Morse announced in response to Thursday’s observation, his wing catching on the table as he turned to put down the radio. “Nor was the transistor.”

“So where is he?” Bright asked. “Why did he run away?”

Peter heard his own voice before he’d even made the decision to speak up,

“Maybe he saw something of what happened to Aldridge.”

He sounded weak, barely managing to get Georges surname out.

Bright and Thursday didn’t seem to notice.

Morse, however, most certainly did.

“Let's hope he's still alive,” Thursday rumbled, turning to acknowledge Peter before focusing on Morse. “Better get down to Farnleigh, see if there's anyone there who can shed a light.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sensing that his presence was no longer required Peter stumbled out of the caravan, his left foot almost giving out beneath him as it his a slippery bit of ground, and hurried away from the crime scene. Once he was sure he was far enough away that he wouldn’t be at risk of contaminating the scene he slumped against the nearest wall to where he’d stopped, bent double at the waist and heaved the meagre contents of his stomach out onto the ground.

_“…fuck…”_

He heaved for a second time, unable to stop himself, tears welling up in his eyes.

A hand settled on his back, between his shoulder blades, causing him to flinch.

“It’s ok, it’s just me,” Morse’s soft voice reassured him. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” Peter gasped out, forcing his body to straighten as he brought the back of his hand up to wipe across his mouth. Turning he found himself faced with a frown which was equal parts disbelief and disapproval. “Dodgy eggs combined with the smell of the fish…”

Morse didn’t look convinced.

“Honestly. I was already queasy and then the smell…”

He couldn’t tell him the truth.

If they found out that he had a connection to the victim they’d take him off the case.

He could let that happen.

He had to find out who killed George and bring them to justice, if for no other reason than paying him back for all the times he saved him from a beating or worse at Blenheim Vale.

“Shouldn’t you be on your way to Farnleigh? Investigation won’t run itself, you know?”

Morse gave him a look, his disbelief more prominent than before, before nodding.

“I’ll see you later, then.”

Peter grunted in response, watching Morse as he walked away from him until the other man turned a corner and finally disappeared from view. Only then did he stop fighting back the churning of his stomach, doubling over once more as he gagged painfully and dry heaved.

It took him nearly ten minutes to get himself back under control and he was grateful that, for once in his life, his powers had remained under control during his unpleasant episode.

Accidental flames would have just been the icing on the cake…

Returning to the scene he did his bit, looking away from where they were loading Georges body into the back of the coroners van before the sight could get to him, and then caught a lift back to the station where he set to work cataloguing the evidence they’d all gathered.

Morse returned, full of unanswered questions, and went straight into a meeting.

“Sarge?”

Looking up from the form he was filling in regarding the transistor radio Peter found the same young policewoman as earlier standing before his desk, holding another small note.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Sighting of Tommy Cork. A boy matching his description was seen outside the Empire.”

“Right,” Peter murmured. “Get dispatch to send a patrol. I’ll inform Superintendent Bright.”

Orders given he secured the evidence, leaving the half completed form on top of the large cardboard box containing the radio and rosary beads, and headed towards Brights office.

Raising his hand he knocked firmly on the door before pushing it open.

He’d assumed that the meeting was over.

He was wrong.

“Oh,” he mumbled ducking his head. “Sorry, sir.”

And that was when he saw him.

That face, changed by the passage of time but still painfully recognisable.

It was…

“Assistant Chief Constable Deare; DS Jakes.”

Bright spoke up, making introductions that he had no way of knowing were unnecessary.

No matter how many years passed Peter would never be able to forget Deare.

He was…

He was...

“Peter, I believe?”

The voice of his tormentor sent a violent shiver of fear down his spine, his stomach lurching and he was forced to shake the hand of one of the men who had made his life a living hell.

Again, no one but Morse seemed to notice his discomfort.

“You wanted something?”

“It's Tommy Cork, sir,” Peter managed to get out, his voice shaking as he tore his gaze away from Deare. “We might have had a sighting. Hanging around outside the Empire Theatre.”

“A runaway, sir,” Bright explained for Deare’s benefit. “Ten years old.”

It sickened Peter to see an unhealthy level of interest appear in Deare’s eyes.

His tastes hadn’t changed then…

“He may have seen the murder of this abscondee from Farnleigh.”

Deare hummed,

“Oh, I see.”

“The sighting was very sketchy,” Peter continued, hiding his hands behind his back in order to conceal the fact that they were trembling. As he did so he felt the unmistakably familiar heat of flames break out across his fingertips. “Patrol's been dispatched. Probably nothing.”

Ducking his head he back out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him and grimacing as the flames spread to encompass his entire hand leaving scorch marks around the handle.

And no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t get them under control.

Stumbling away from the crowded Chief Superintendent’s office he ducked into the male toilets, his reflection greeting him in the mirror above the sink and bringing him up short.

It wasn’t just his hands.

His hair was…

His hair was _on fire_ …

There were…

There were _flames_ in his _eyes_ …

And his hands were completely enveloped to the point where he couldn’t see his fingers...

“…no…”

His entire body began to shake.

It hadn’t been this bad since…since he left Blenheim Vale and came off the suppressants…

He closed his eyes, desperately willing the flames to go away…

Nothing happened.

The flames wouldn’t go away.

Whimpering pathetically he stumbled forwards to the sink, fumbling briefly before he was able to turn on both the not and cold tap and sticking his hands under the flowing water.

It helped, dousing the flames, but as he soon as he pulled his hands away they came back.

_“…please…”_

How tears could form and fall from eyes that were burning he didn’t know.

But they could.

And they did.

His breath started coming in sharp gasps.

Why…

Why did it have to be him?

Why did he have to come here?

Why…why couldn’t they leave him alone?

His thoughts started out desperate but rapidly transformed into anger, the flames all over his body flaring as his emotions changed, continuing to grow as he glared at his reflection.

“Peter?”

The voice startled him, not having realised he was no longer alone, and he spun to find…

“…Morse?”

“Peter, I want you to close your eyes for me,” Morse ordered softly, bringing his wings up so that they surrounded the pair of them even though the heat of the flames must be painful. Biting his lower lip Peter obeyed. “Good. Now, breathe with me. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. Again. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. Good. Just listen to my voice, Peter. In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four. That’s it. Now, look at your hands.”

The flames were gone.

“What about…?”

A single hand moved towards his hair.

Morse nodded towards the mirror, prompting him to turn and look at his reflection. 

He turned.

The flames were all gone.

His hair, more mussed than he liked to wear it, was back to normal.

His eyes were blue again.

“Those must have been some bad eggs…”

His earlier excuse brought an unbidden smile to his lips.

Morse didn’t believe it now, despite being the one to voice it, any more than he had earlier.

“If you want to talk, whatever it’s about, I’ll listen.”

“…thank you…”

He didn’t know if he ever would…ever could talk about what had happened to him.

But, and this surprised him more than anything, knowing that Morse had offered to listen without having any idea about what had caused him to have such poor control was…nice.

“Do you feel up to joining us for the post mortem? DeBryn just sent word that he’s ready.”

The post mortem.

George.

 _Did_ he feel up to it?

No.

Was he going to allow his own issues get in the way of bringing Georges killers to justice?

No.

He wasn’t.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he announced as firmly as he could, using his fingers to tidy up his hair. Morse watched him closely. “If we could keep this between us I would be very grateful.”

“Of course.”

~ * ~


	6. Chapter Six

** SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT ** **  
CHAPTER SIX**

_“The best way to treat obstacle is to use them as stepping-stones. Laugh at them, tread on them, and let the, lead you to something better.” – Enid Blyton_

Entering the morgue a couple of paces behind Morse who in turn entered a couple of paces behind Bright and Thursday they were greeted by the sight of Dr DeBryn carefully laying a strip of cloth across Geo…across the body resting on the metal table so as to keep Geor…to keep the corpses dignity intact even in death. Whilst the two senior officers moved to stand opposite the coroner Morse chose to stand at the foot of the table, his wings unfurling into the space available, which left Peter with two choices; keep back entirely which was so out of character for him that even Bright was bound to realise that something was wrong or stand at the head of the table. He chose, albeit reluctantly and with a soft grunt, the latter.

He purposefully kept his gaze away from the puckered skin around the medical incisions on the bodies chest, the majority of the necessary cuts hidden beneath the sheet, which meant that he had catalogued every bruise marring the pale skin laid out before him before DeBryn had even begun his report; both eyes were badly blackened and would no doubt have been swollen if he hadn’t died so soon after receiving the beating, a fact that Peter recognised after seeing too many corpses in his relatively short career with the same kind of bruising, and both his left cheek and forehead were bruised and scraped. His jaw was, surprisingly, bruise free as was his upper torso but Peter got the feeling that a multitude of bruises were hidden beneath the white sheet. What weren’t hidden were the bruises around his wrists.

“Drowned?”

“Yes,” DeBryn confirmed for Superintendent Bright. “But that doesn't explain the rest of it.”

DeBryn had always seemed like a bit of an odd fish to Peter, what with his old-fashioned knitted vest or waistcoats, his patterned bow ties and his horn rimmed spectacles. Not to mention his oddly gentle voice, every word carefully calculated and perfectly pronounced.

And he never touched anyone that possessed a heartbeat.

This, Peter had only learned recently, was due to the fact that he was a Mutant.

Morse, because of course it was Morse who had managed to get the notoriously private medical examiner to open up to him, had told Peter and Strange in confidence during a case involving mutants being targeted that DeBryns gift centred around _power absorption_ and that this included people’s “life force” as well as other mutants abilities. His gift, and the problems that it had created for him growing up, had resulted in his becoming a coroner.

“Contusions are consistent with his having taken a sustained beating,” DeBryn continued with his explanation, gesturing to the bodies face. “Within an hour or so of his death.”

“Somebody worked him over.”

“Rather comprehensively,” BeBryn agreed softly with Thursday’s murmured assessment of the bruising patterns. “Fractured ribs, ruptured spleen, all while his hands were bound...”

Peter barely surprised a flinch as his cruel mind readily supplied an image of what Georges last moments had been like; hands bound to something, his mind assumed a chair, whilst a couple of blurred out figures struck him again and again until he lost consciousness at which point they must’ve released him from his bonds, dragged him to the pool and drowned him.

He could only hope that, for Georges sake, he’d been unconscious when he’d gone into the water. Drowning, he had been told by those that had witnessed it, was a _horrible_ way to die.

“Can you put a time to it?”

DeBryn looked hesitant but answered nonetheless,

“An hour or two either side of midnight.”

It was at this point that Peter noticed Morse moving away from the body, making his way across to where Georges…the bodies…no, it wasn’t a body, it was _George_ and the boy who had protected him deserved to be referred to by his name even if made Peter want to...

“A41,” Thursday’s voice interrupted his spiralling thoughts. Morse was now looking closely at the still dripping clothes hung over one of the wheeled stands dotted around the room, frowning thoughtfully. “The A41, presumably. Not that it comes anywhere near Oxford.”

Not to mention why would George have a road number tattooed on his arm, Peter thought to himself with his own frown as Thursday drew their attention to the thick black lettering.

Morse, however, was interested in something else,

“So where's he got the coat?”

“His coat?” Bright enquired sharply, his confusion evident. “What about it?”

“It's not standard prison issue.”

Peter was disappointed in himself.

That was the sort of thing he should’ve noticed, _would_ have noticed, if he hadn’t been so…

“Stolen.”

“Thompson and Beard,” Morse read out the label, seeming to ignored Brights dismissive conclusion. He was moving before he even thought about it, his feet carrying Peter over so that he too could have a closer look at the sopping wet coat and its label. “Savile Row.”

“They also had a branch in The Broad, if memory serves,” DeBryn commented thoughtfully, glancing briefly across at Morse and Peter. “Although that closed when Adam was a boy.”

Peter watched as Morse’s long fingers plunged into the coats wet pockets one at a time, eventually producing a result in the last pocket. It was a small damp piece of blue card.

“What's that?” Peter found himself asking, reaching out to take it. Some of the writing might possibly still be legible under a magnifying glass despite the water damage. “A laundry tag?”

“Dry-cleaning more likely,” Thursday countered. “See if you can get a local match.”

“Sir.”

Turning away from the body of his former friend he was both surprised and unsurprised when Morse fell into step alongside him as he crossed the room, heading for the exit.

“You sure you’re alright?” Morse enquired softly so no one else would hear. “I could…”

“No,” Peter responded quickly, glancing back to make sure that Thursday hadn’t heard, noting with relief that the Detective Inspector had returned to studying Georges bruised body with Bright and DeBryn. “No, I’m fine now. Honestly. But…thanks…I’ll see you later.”

“Right.”

Morse, unsurprisingly, didn’t sound convinced.

Holding the soggy piece of card between his thumb and forefingers he made his way out of the morgue, ducking his head as he passed a couple of uniformed officer discussing a report.

It wasn’t until he was striding along the pavement towards the nearest dry-cleaners that he realised that he had been in such a rush to get out of there that he’d forgotten to go back to his desk to fetch his coat, something that he soon came to regret as it began to rain heavily.

Cursing as the rain quickly began to soak through his suit jacket and trousers, the exposed parts of his white shirt turning see-through under the onslaught, he ducked under the store front that he was closest to so as to shelter from the rain alongside the others who’d been caught out by the downpour. He checked that the evidence was alright first, wishing he had something to keep it safe in, and then checked that his cigarettes hadn’t gotten too damp.

“Couldn’t spare one them, could you?”

The thin, reedy voice came from the young woman stood to the right of him, a grumbling toddler perched on her hip whilst an infant sleep soundly in a rather battered looking pram.

“Go on, then,” he muttered, holding the pack out towards her. “Just the one, mind.”

She offered him a grateful smile as she retrieved one of the sticks of tobacco,

“I’m Meg, Meg Matthews. Got a light?”

Retrieving a cigarette for himself he sparked up his thumb, smiling at the toddler when the little girl gasped loudly before holding the flame to the end of his cigarette. Her mother, Meg, was equally as wide eyed as he offered the flaming digit to her but she didn’t even hesitate to lean forwards, cigarette held between her lips. Exhaling a long plume of smoke Peter tucked his thumb into his palm, willing the flames away, and studied the downpour.

“Came out of nowhere, didn’t it? The rain, I mean. I only popped to the shops for some eggs,” she announced cheerfully, bouncing her daughter on her hip. “What’s your name?”

“Detective Sergeant Jakes.”

“Oh…”

“Mumma, how he do dat?” her daughter asked suddenly. “Was it magic? Can I do dat?”

“No, it wasn’t magic, sweetheart,” Meg explained gently, managing to tuck a strand of her daughters hair behind her ear without burning her with the cigarette held between her fingers. A well practiced move, Peter recognised. “Sergeant Jakes is a mutant. Like Pippa.”

“Nu-uh,” her daughter countered with a shake of her head. “Pippa make snowfwakes.”

“Not all mutants have the same abilities, sweetheart.”

“Oh.”

Peter became aware of a few disapproving looks being sent their way by some of the older people sheltering from the rain and purposefully turned so as to put himself between them and the young girl blinking up at him with big blue eyes filled with wonder and amazement.

“So,” Meg turned her attention back to him. “What brings you here today?”

“I’m making some enquiries for our current investigation,” Peter explained automatically, retrieving the sodden piece of card to show to her. “We believe it’s a dry-cleaning ticket.”

“Don’t you mean it used to be one?” Meg giggled softly, leaning in to get a closer look at the piece of card with its faded lettering and tattered edges. “ _Johnson’s_ on the High Street uses yellow cards so it’s not from there. I take my husbands suits there, you see? And old _Cornish_ doesn’t use any cards at all. We used to use his services but he muddled up our order one too many times so my husband decided that we should switch to a…younger proprietor.”

“And _Smith & Sons_?”

As he spoke Peter gestured to the store he’d been headed towards.

“Never used them, I’m afraid,” Meg apologised sincerely. As suddenly as the rain had begun it came to an end, ceasing so abruptly it was as though someone had turned off a tap. “Oh, thank goodness for that! Well, it was nice meeting you, Sergeant, but we should be going.”

“Of course. It was nice meeting you, too, Meg. You’ve been a great help, actually.”

“I have?” Meg responded, genuinely surprised. “Well, how about that.”

They parted ways, Meg murmuring to her daughter about how “daddy wasn’t going to believe that they’d been able to help the nice policeman” as she ducked into the grocers.

Peter meanwhile paused to make a note of the information that she’d given him into his notebook before completing the last bit of his journey, stepping into the dry cleaning shop.

A young man no older than sixteen stood behind the counter reading a magazine.

He didn’t look up from it as he enquired,

“Dropping off or collecting?”

“Neither,” Peter responded testily, taking out his warrant card so that he could hold it in front of the boys face when he finally looked up in confusion. He took probably a little bit too much pleasure from the way the blood drained from the boys face. “Official inquiry.”

The boy went to speak but his words got stuck, forcing him to clear his throat before asking,

“…about what?”

“This was found in the pocket of a body recovered earlier today,” Peter explained stiffly, once again retrieving the damp piece of card from his pocket. “Is this one of your tags?”

A glance at the stack on the counter answered his question even before the boy spoke.

“Yeah, looks like it. What happened to it?”

“The body was found submerged in water,” Peter managed to say, an image of how they’d found George piercing through his mind. His fingertips felt warm but, thankfully, no flames appeared this time. “As you can see the hand-written part of the card has been irreparably damaged by the water. The printed account number, however, is for the most part intact.”

He drew the boys attention to said number with the tip of his finger.

“So I need you to look up the account holders for numbers 133, 138 and 188,” he continued, listing the three numbers that it could possibly be given that they only had the bottom part of the printed numbers left. Biting his lip in a suitably contrite manner the boy nodded. “And if it’s going to take you a while to find the information a cup of tea would be appreciated.”

“Right.”

The cup of tea was tepid rather than hot, obviously made from an existing pot rather than a fresh one, but Peter had had worse at the station, particularly when Smith was on tea duty.

“Here are the accounts you wanted,” the boy grunt as he returned from the back office, holding out three identical brown files for Peter to take. “Just so you know 133’s account has been closed for five years, though, so I don’t know if that’ll be the one your looking for.”

Peter nodded to show that he’d heard the boy.

133, it turned out was, was a retired Army Colonel who according to the file had only ever brought his best uniform in to be dry cleaned once a year in time for Remembrance Day.

No, Peter silently agreed, it wasn’t him.

The reason given for the account closure was ‘services no longer required’ and, a quick check of the customers date of birth, had Peter supposing that the gentleman had died.

138, he soon learned, was an elderly widow who got all of her dresses cleaned monthly.

Given the style of the coat was definitely male Peter surmised this wasn’t the right file.

That left…

He didn’t need to look any further than the customers name to know that he’d found the owner of the coat that George had been wearing when he’d been murd…when he’d died.

_Fairbridge, Ernest. G._

Doctor Fairbridge, the two-faced monster of Blenheim Vale who has made their lives hell, experimenting on the mutants under his care as he searched for a permanent “cure” whilst pretending not to know what else was going on at the institution, patching them up when the beatings went too far or when the “games” their abusers liked to play got out of hand.

Some of the others, George included, had believed the Doctor when he used to claim that he would have helped them if he could but that he was just as trapped there as they were.

Peter had always seen through his lies.

And now, he suspected, George had gone to Fairbridge for help and had been betrayed.

“…need anything else?”

“No,” Peter muttered quickly, dropping the two files that he didn’t need onto the counter before holding up the third. “I’ll be taking this with me. We’ll return it once we’re done.”

“Right.”

“And you might want to work on your customer service,” Peter advised him as he turned and headed out of the shop, glancing back over his shoulder. “Lest you ignore a customer.”

A petulant glare was his only response.

He’d had every intention of logging he evidence as soon as he returned to the station, even if it meant he ended up implicating himself and revealing that he’d once been aquatinted with the victim as to why he knew that Ernest. G. Fairbridge was linked to George Aldridge.

However when he stepped into the station he learned from Strange that Morse had already linked Fairbridge to the case and both he and Thursday had already gone to interview him.

The file, he decided, could wait.

Clocking out for the evening he collected his things, hiding the file in his desk drawer and locking it to keep the night sergeant out, and headed out to sign a car out for the evening.

It was impulsive, he could have just walked home as per usual, but…no…he needed to…

He needed to _see_ him.

To see the man who had had such a huge part in ruining his life.

Driving out to the address he’d seen on the file from the dry cleaners he quickly spotted the car that Morse had taken out for the day parked outside and so pulled his own car alongside the pavement opposite, making sure to come to a stop between the lampposts so that he was hidden in the shadows provided. He wanted to see, yes, but he didn’t want to be seen.

He was there for almost an hour before the front door opened.

And there they were, DI Thursday, DC Morse and…

“Angela…”

He wouldn’t have known her were it not for her distinct jawline, something that some of the other boys had teased her about when she’d hopped the fence to play with them, and the mousy brown colour of her hair although gone were the twin braids and pigtails, replaced instead with a stylish hairstyle that he’d seen many a fashionable woman wearing recently.

Fairbridge didn’t come to the door to see the two other policemen off.

That task was left to Angela, the attractive young woman lingering at the door until their car had disappeared from view. Only then did she allow her smile to drop as she shut the door.

Peter didn’t know how long he sat there alternating between staring at the house or at the stars visible in the night sky, long enough for a chill to settle it and for his legs to go to sleep.

Only once all of the lights in the Fairbridge house had been extinguished did he head home.

~ * ~


	7. Chapter Seven

** SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT  
** **CHAPTER SEVEN**

_“Even if she be not harmed, her heart may fail her in so much and so many horrors; and hereafter she may suffer--both in waking, from her nerves, and in sleep, from her dreams.” ― Bram Stoker_

_Peter was dreaming._

_He knew he was dreaming._

_And yet, somehow, that didn’t make it any less terrifying._

_Blenheim Vale loomed over him, even more dark and imposing in his mind than it ever had been in reality, and between one blink and the next he was inside, the door slamming shut._

_“Hello, Peter.”_

_The voice of his nightmares had changed._

_Deare no longer sounded the way he had when he was a boy._

_Youthful._

_Deceptively gentle._

_No._

_Now that he’d met him again his mind knew exactly how he sounded after so many years._

_Cold._

_Calculating._

_Cruel._

_And all of that with only two words._

_A greeting._

_“It’s good to see you again.”_

_Shaking his head he turned, planning to leave the building, only to find himself suddenly facing a long corridor which he finally identified as being the one leading to his dormitory._

_A step forwards and the world seemed to grow._

_No._

_He shrunk._

_A glance down at himself confirmed that he had regressed to twelve-years-old again._

_Knowing it was a dream didn’t make it any less disturbing._

_“Look at you. So handsome…”_

_Starting down the corridor he frowned as it suddenly stretched out in front of him, getting longer and longer before his eyes, and his breath started to come in sharp, frightened gasps._

_And then the walls starts to bleed._

_He whimpered, stumbling as blood began to pool on the floor beneath his feet, and found himself facing a door that, simply put, shouldn’t be there; it was the door to the dining hall._

_That didn’t matter, however, as it was an escape from the blood._

_His hands were shaking as he attempted to depress the handle._

_It fought him, stiff from a lack of use, but eventually gave._

_“Late, Jakes!”_

_This wasn’t the dining hall, he realised as he stumbled into the room._

_It was the institutions smaller classroom, the one that Peter and the other mutants had had their lessons in away from the other boys, and there at the front was old Mrs Smyth-Weston._

_“I do not condone tardiness in my classroom.”_

_Her face, wrinkled like an old piece of leather, was purple with fury._

_All of the boys had both hated and feared Mrs Smyth-Weston._

_She’d hated mutants._

_She’d loved corporal punishment._

_That was why she’d volunteered to teach them._

_“Come here.”_

_It was a dream._

_Peter could have turned and fled and yet, legs trembling, he moved to stand before her._

_“Hands out. Palms up.”_

_A caning, it turned out, hurt as much in a dream as it had in reality._

_His memories fault, no doubt._

_“Now, take your seat. And no more disruptions!”_

_“Yes, Mrs Smyth-Weston. Sorry, Mrs Smyth-Weston.”_

_He turned to obey and found himself in the laundry room._

_It was full of steam, just as it had always been, and the scent of cheap detergent and starch._

_That wasn’t the most important thing about the laundry room, though._

_No, it was that it had a door out to the courtyard where the laundry was dried._

_A door that was open._

_Hurrying across the room he had almost reached the door she it slammed shut._

_“No…”_

_The room went dark all of sudden despite the huge windows dominating one of the walls._

_A hand settled on his shoulder._

_“Now, Little Pete, you should know better than to try and run away from us.”_

_Wintergreen._

_A second hand settled on his other shoulder._

_“Perhaps he needs another lesson in good manners.”_

_Landesman._

_A whimper burst out of him._

_No._

_His body went limp of its own accord, dropping him down to the floor with a painful thud, effectively severing their grips on him and then he lay there, dazed and panicking for a long moment before scrambling to his hands and knees and crawling away from the angry men._

_“You’re going to regret that, boy…”_

_His crawl became a stumble…_

_His stumble became a scramble…_

_His scramble became a desperate run…_

_They followed him, their longer legs rapidly gaining on him as he burst through the door into the corridor, for the first time actually ending up where he was expecting to in the building._

_A quick left turn and he was in the entrance hall._

_And there they were._

_The bodies._

_He cried out in terror, coming up short._

_Eddie was at the front, his eyes bulging as the rope tightened around his neck, and in a row of three behind him were Superintendent Bright, DI Thursday and Constable Strange, their bodies swinging in time with one another from the coarse ropes that they’d been hung from._

_And behind them were more faces that they knew._

_A hand grabbed his wrist, spinning him round to find not his pursuers but Doctor DeBryn._

_“Ah, there you are,” the coroner intoned cheerfully. “Come along; your turn.”_

_His turn?_

_His turn for what?_

_“Once I can get you on the slab I can let you know what killed you.”_

_“…what?”_

_He planted his feet, trying to stop the coroner from dragging him along._

_It was then he heard the cry for help._

_“There’s no need for all this fuss. We just need to find out what happened to you.”_

_Another cry for help._

_Louder._

_And this time he could recognise the voice…_

_“Morse.”_

_His struggles with DeBryn increased._

_“Hold onto him, Doctor!” Wintergreen called out as he and Landesman arrived. “He’s ours!”_

_“No!”_

_Breaking out DeBryns hold Peter ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time in his haste to get up to the first floor from where the cries for help came from. His pursuers followed him._

_“Peter!”_

_That was definitely Morse._

_“Help me!”_

_His feet carried him down another long corridor until he found himself facing a familiar door._

_It didn’t surprise him._

_This was a room that had featured his many of his nightmares._

_A scream sounded from inside._

_Not for the first time._

_This room had been home to many screams during Peters time at the institution._

_The doctors office._

_“No!” Morse cried out from behind the closed door. “Stop! Don’t touch me!”_

_It was this desperate cry that finally had Peter reaching for the door handle, pushing through his fear of the room and the man that had resided there in order to force the door to open._

_Fairbridge was there, just as he’d known he would be._

_He was bent over the bed, upon which Morse was strapped face down, wings exposed._

_In his hand was a saw, the kind that a carpenter would use._

_“No!”_

_The teeth of the blade came down upon the base of Morse’s left wing._

_Their voices, his and Morse’s mingled, both filled with fear and desperation._

_“Don’t!”_

_Peter rushed forwards, intending to stop him, only to rebound off of an invisible wall._

_What?_

_He flattened himself against the invisible force, pushing desperately at it._

_He had to help Morse._

_He had to help Morse!_

_“Stop! Please stop! Don’t do this! Please don’t do this!”_

_Fairbridge ignored him._

_An arm wrapped around his stomach, pulling him away._

_He screamed, expecting Wintergreen or Landesman or even DeBryn._

_A glance upwards at the face of the man pulling him backwards confirmed it was worse._

_Deare._

_“Hello, Peter.”_

_No._

_No, he couldn’t…_

_“You can’t help your friend, Peter.”_

_The arms dragged him away._

_No._

_“Freaks like you need to be taught your place.”_

_Their place._

_His place._

_“It’s been such a long time since we had some time alone together…”_

_“No!”_

_The door to the doctors office slammed shut, trapping Morse inside and locking Peter out._

_He kicked._

_He thrashed._

_Anything he could do to try and get Deare’s hands off of him._

_As a last ditch attempt he bit him…_

_And then he was free._

_So he ran._

_And then, as though his nightmare couldn’t get any worse, there was his step-father._

_“No…”_

_His skin was blackened by the flames which had condemned Peter to his years at Blenheim._

_“Time for you to pay for what you did to me, freak…”_

_There was only one way for him to get away from them all, the group chasing him and the grotesque figure blocking his path; the narrow staircase leading up to roof of the building._

_He’d never been up there as a boy._

_It was forbidden._

_Out of bounds._

_Now he navigated the winding staircase until he burst out into the open air._

_And there, despite everything that had featured in this horrific nightmare so far, was someone who he had never dreamed of before despite always having expected to…_

_“Big Pete…”_

_“Hello, Peter.”_

_Big Pete looked exactly the same as he had the last time he’d seen him, that day when Deare and the others had taken him away to punish them all for what they’d done to Deare’s car._

_The day that he hadn’t come back from the hotel._

_“It’s been a while,” Big Pete offered him a smile. “Why don’t you join me up here?”_

_“They’re coming…”_

_“I know,” Big Pete murmured, reaching out a hand for him. “I’ll protect you.”_

_That sounded…nice…_

_He stumbled forwards, taking the offered hand, and climbed up onto the ledge._

_His vision swam._

_The ground was so far below them..._

_The wind, which he’d barely noticed before, was so much stronger now…_

_“There you are…”_

_Deare’s voice, filled with dark delight, made him jump and it was only his grip on Big Pete’s hand that stopped him from falling off of the ledge. Wintergreen and Landesman laughed._

_“Do you trust me?” Big Pete asked softly. “Little Pete, do you trust me?”_

_Blinking up at the taller boy Peter nodded._

_He did._

_He’d always trusted Big Pete._

_Why would now be any different?_

_“Don’t listen to him, Peter,” Deare called out from behind him. “Listen to me.”_

_“You need to jump.”_

_“…what?”_

_“It’s the only way to escape them,” Big Pete explained. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”_

_“But…”_

_He looked down again at the ground far, far below them…_

_“Don’t listen to him, Peter.”_

_Deare sounded angry._

_No good ever came from Deare being angry._

_“Come back to me.”_

_“It’s ok, Little Pete.”_

_“You belong with me.”_

_Peter felt his stomach clench painfully at Deare’s possessive tone of voice._

_He truly believe every word that he said._

_“You belong to me.”_

_No._

_He didn’t._

_He had once, when he was a child and had no other choice._

_But he was grown-up now…_

_He was grown-up and this was a dream…_

_It was just a dream…_

_“I trust you, Big Pete…”_

_“Then need to jump.”_

_Big Pete said he’d keep him safe._

_“Jump, Peter.”_

_And it was just a dream…_

_“Jump…”_

_So he did._

~ * ~

He woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in his bed, just before he struck ground.

“…what the fuck?”

Big Pete.

He’d dreamed of _Big Pete._

And Morse.

He’d never…neither of them had ever featured in his nightmares before…

Miraculously his hands hadn’t sparked, probably because they hadn’t in his nightmare, and so his bedding was merely damp with sweat instead of scorched like it had been recently.

It must be…it must be this case…

It was tiring up everything…

“ _Eddie_ …” he groaned, the image of the boy hanging flashing before his eyes. “Fuck…”

An unfortunate side effect of his profession, he decided, was that even though he hadn’t seen his friend hang himself his mind knew enough about the act to recreate it so vividly.

There would be no more sleep for him that night.

Not with the details of his nightmare so fresh in his mind.

Instead he switched on the light and set about stripping his bedsheets to wash them.

He couldn’t wait for this case to be over so that everything could go back to normal…

~ * ~


	8. Chapter Eight

** SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT  
** **CHAPTER EIGHT**

_“All falsehood is a mask; and however well made the mask may be, with a little attention we may always succeed in distinguishing it from the true face.” ― Alexandre Dumas_

The call had come through less than an hour after their shift had begun.

Another suspicious death, this one at the council offices, as yet unidentified.

It had only been when Peter had arrived at the scene moments after Dr DeBryn that he had learned that the victim was none other than Wintergreen, one of his childhood tormentors.

Wintergreen…

Wintergreen was…

Veering away from the body he went instead to the window, pretending to be looking at something upon the sill when really he was desperately trying to regulate his breathing.

He couldn’t…

He was relieved…

And that…that was wrong, wasn’t it?

To be relieved that someone was dead?

To be _glad_ that someone was dead?

But at the same time…

At the same time to feel sick to his stomach…

Wintergreen was _dead_ …

“Who found him?”

Thursday’s voice came from the other room, pre-empting his arrival along with Morse.

“His secretary,” Strange answered, leading the way in the room. He’d been the first officer on the scene having been the one to take the original call to the station. “Mrs McGarrett.”

“Dr DeBryn.”

Peter hunched his shoulders, attempting to make himself as small as possible so that he’d be overlooked for the moment as the doctor nodded in response to Thursday’s greeting.

He needed…

He needed time to…to figure out how he should feel about…

“Good God, it's true, then.”

No.

Why was _Deare_ here?

He shouldn’t be here.

Bright’s voice followed next, answering his silent question as he explained softly,

“We were at Division when we heard.”

“Time?”

DeBryn hummed thoughtfully before supplying his answer to Thursday’s enquiry,

“Sometime between ten last night and one o'clock this morning.”

That meant…

That meant that at the time Peter had been dreaming of Wintergreen he’d been…

Someone had…

Unable to avoid his duties any longer Peter turned away from the window and, albeit a little reluctantly, made his way over to where everyone else stood in a group, intending to keep his gaze away from the body and yet he couldn’t help but allow his gaze to drawn down…

Wintergreen was on his back, unseeing eyes gazing up at them all, one arm outstretched…

And a knife sticking out of his chest.

His stomach lurched.

He stumbled back a couple of paces before he could stop himself, gasping pathetically.

“Oh, Jesus…”

He must have sounded particularly wretched as even Thursday was concerned.

“You all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Thursday frowned.

“You don't look it.”

Of course, the first words that came out of his mouth as a defence were,

“Something I ate.”

Morse, who had been studying the corpse, turned his attention on Peter.

“Not the eggs again, I hope?”

“Possibly…”

It was obvious that Thursday was less than convinced but he returned his focus to the case.

“Statements and particulars from anyone who may have seen anything,” he ordered, glancing back and forth between them. “Anyone working late. Councillors, cleaners.”

“Right, sir.”

“Sir.”

They agreed to split up, Morse agreeing to interview the secretary while Peter tracked down those who might had been in the building at the time of the murder. It was tedious work, grunt work really that should have been given to the most junior detective, but it took his mind off of everything else for a while at least. By the time he had found everyone that had ended up on his list Morse and Thursday were interviewing the victim’s wife so he decided to head back to the station, stopping off at a pub on the way for a restorative pint of beer.

He wasn’t a big drinker, not like Morse or Thursday, but today he really needed it.

It was therefore almost an hour before he actually made it back to the station.

He noticed the changes to the board as soon as he entered the squad room.

The photograph of George’s ‘ _A4’_ tattoo had been moved and placed beside a photograph of the rosary that had been found in the caravan that George had been using as a hiding place.

A note, in Morse’s handwriting, had been pinned up between them.

_Link – The Three Musketeers._

_The rosary is in morse code – spells out “All For One, One for all.”_

_A4 could be either a reference to the quote or the fact that there were four of them;_

_Athos._

_Aramis._

_Porthos._

_D’Artagnan._

Peter felt something twist painfully in his stomach.

It hadn’t even crossed his mind to look at the rosary as anything other than what it was.

A religious symbol.

Only it wasn’t.

No, it was something that made perfect sense to someone who knew about Blenheim Vale.

Peter hadn’t even heard of the _Three Musketeers_ before he’d come to the institution but within a couple of days he had become as enamoured with the adventurous tale as much as the other boys had due to the fact that Nicholas read a chapter aloud to them each night.

His first night they’d had to put the story on hold to quickly explain the parts he’d missed.

And he’d understood immediately.

They used it as an escape.

As a way to forget.

Heading into the evidence room he carefully reached down to pick up the rosary, cradling it as though it were something precious. He could see now that the glass beads, a mixture of black, white and red, were arranged in a most unusual and seemingly unpredictable order.

How Morse could recognise it as a form of code he didn’t know.

It was as he was looking at them closely that he noticed the ‘ _P’_ scratched into the back of the cross, something that someone more religious would have been upset about, he was sure but for him it just confirmed that these beads had indeed belonged to poor George.

His favourite Musketeer had always been Porthos, whom the book had described as being fond of fashionable clothes, wine and women, as well as being the strongest of the group.

He wouldn’t be surprised if, wherever they were, Nicholas, Henry and Benny would each have a matching rosary, complete with the individual letters scratched into the crosses.

‘ _A’_ for Nicholas who’s favourite had somewhat puzzlingly always been Athos, the Comte de la Fère who was written as a notorious alcohol who had been married to the spy, Milady.

Another _‘A’_ for Henry who’s favourite had been Aramis, the most handsome of the group who struggles to choose between his religious calling and his fondness for women and wine.

And _‘D’_ for Benny who’s favourite had always been D’Artagnan, the young, somewhat foolhardy, brave and clever man who spent the entire novel seeking his fortune in Paris.

He was Peter’s favourite too although whenever they played pretend he’d always been relegated to playing the King Louis XIII who always needed rescuing by the Musketeers.

Big Pete and Ed had always ended up playing the books antagonists, Cardinal Richelieu and Rochefort, one of his agents, not that either of them had ever seemed to mind very much.

They’d played their last game of Musketeers the day before Big Pete had disappeared.

It was the day _after_ Big Pete had been taken to the hotel by Wintergreen, returning with a black eye and a split lip, and he was still in character as Cardinal Richelieu when he’d first put forward the idea of doing something to get their own back against their vile abusers.

Predictably and understandably the others had all latched onto his idea, abandoning the game in their haste to gather the various items that they needed to enact their revenge.

George had been the one to find the can of petrol.

Nicholas had sacrificed one of his hand towels.

Ed had found the matches.

His hands shook, the beads rattling, as he recalled the moment that they’d snuck out of the building after their curfew and made their way round to where Wintergreen parked his car.

_“Go on, Pete. Go on.”_

Big Pete had asked Peter to help him soak the towel in the petrol, he recalled, and his chest had swelled with pride as he’d carefully poured the dangerous liquid over the piece of cloth.

Then it had been twisted into a snake like shape and Big Pete had scurried over to the black vehicle which haunted their nightmares even then, poked half of the rag down the fuel pipe and used the matches to light the exposed end of fire. Big Pete had only just made it back to the rest of them when the car exploded with an almighty bang, louder than when Peter had accidently set his step-dad’s car on fire, with a shower of flames that rained down on them.

That had gone up with a series of mini explosions; Wintergreen’s car went up with only one.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, Peter recalled.

How wrong they’d been…

Out of the corner of his eye he clocked Morse arriving with Thursday, already midway through a somewhat heated discussion about the case, and he carefully put down the rosary. His hands, he noticed absentmindedly, shook as badly as he’d ever seen them and decided that the best thing he could do was get himself a cup of tea and have a cigarette.

Someone dropped something as he stepped out of the evidence room and he jumped, his heart pounding as the vivid memory of the cane striking his back seared through his mind.

_“Give us the name…”_

“Jakes?” Thursday enquired, drowning out the memory. “Everything alright there?”

“Yes, Sir,” he responded somewhat dully. “I was just going to make a cup of tea.”

_“We just want a name, Peter…”_

The voice was back.

Haunting him.

“Would you like a cup, sir?”

“That would be lovely, Sergeant.”

Excusing himself as swiftly as politeness allowed Peter made his way through the station to the canteen, joining the queue of men who were waiting to make themselves a cup of tea.

He refused to allow that particular memory to proceed any further.

It did him no good to remember the day that he had become no better than Judas…

Instead he forced himself to think of something else.

Anything else.

Ed.

 _Eddie_.

He’d only learned in recent years what his friend had done, sneaking out after lights out a month after Big Pete had disappeared to hangs himself from their favourite climbing tree.

Peter had been transferred out of Blenheim Vale a couple of days before having fallen into what he now recognised as a state of depression following everything that had happened.

He’d stopped eating entirely.

Stopped drinking more than a couple of sips of water at a time.

He’d stopped talking, even to the other boys.

Had stopped responding.

And so, citing that they were incapable of caring for such a case, they’d sent him away.

His next placement had been more like a hospital than a school, with more emphasis being placed on his physical wellbeing than his poor maths skills, and he’d slowly recovered whilst under their care. Oh, they’d still used suppressants to keep his powers under control but only ever the hospital approved kind which hurt significantly less than the experimental combinations which had been used on him at Blenheim Vale. He’d been a patient of theirs for almost three years before being sent on to an institution similar to Blenheim where he’d spent the remainder of his sentence learning the skills he would need to get through life.

“Sergeant?” a polite voice startled him back to the present. “You need a hand?”

Peter was surprised to find himself at the front of the queue, the voice belonging to the uniformed Constable behind him who was no doubt confused by his apparent hesitation.

“No, thank you,” Peter responded. “Just got lost in my own head for a moment.”

How he made it through the rest of the any he didn’t know.

Morse was gone by the time he returned to the squad room with his and Thursday’s cups of tea, chasing off his own enquiries into the murder, and Peter resolved that he would let the other man know what he’d found out about the jacket when he came back to the station.

Only he never did.

He was gone for the entire day.

Peters day was spent alternating between the evidence room, cataloguing the evidence for the inevitable court case, and completing the reams of paperwork required of them. He got through an entire packet of cigarettes, all but chain smoking them, and fourteen cups of tea.

“Go on home, Jakes,” Thursday called out suddenly, startling him. “Start afresh tomorrow.”

“Yes, Sir.”

For reasons unknown even to himself he slipped the now crisp dry cleaning tag which would securely incriminate his former abuser in the case into his pocket before pulling on his coat.

He didn’t go home, though.

He went to the pub that he and his fellow police officers tended to frequent.

This, in hindsight, was not the best idea given his current mental state.

He didn’t think he could face being alone just then, not with his worst memories so close to the surface, and so he surrounded himself with people he knew at a glance, downing more pints of beer than he probably should whilst making a start on a second pack of cigarettes.

A flaw quickly became apparent in his plan.

The more alcohol he consumed the louder the voices in his mind became.

_“We know you had something to do with it, Peter.”_

_“I…I didn’t…”_

_“A little fire starter like you not involved in my car being set alight? I think not.”_

_“Please…”_

_“But we don’t think you were the active party. No, you’re a good boy aren’t you, Peter?”_

Deare’s voice almost brought the last pint of beer straight back up.

No more, he resolved.

No more alcohol.

Sadly he was a little too late be cutting himself off. 

The damage was already done, the door to his memories wide open.

_“You must know who is responsible, though. So, how about you give us a name?”_

_“I…I don’t know…”_

_“Give us the name, Peter.”_

His whimper was both in the past and the present, drawing a couple of concerned gazes over to him as he slumped back in his chair, sparks appearing on his fingertips as he brought his hands up to rub the unwanted tears out of his eyes, pressing just a fraction too hard.

No, alcohol had definitely been a bad idea...

The sound of the cane moving through the air was so vivid that he doubled over, mindlessly trying to get away from a threat that only he could hear. Someone gasped sharply, inquiring,

“Is he alright?”

It was a woman, the voice unfamiliar.

“Rough case, I expect.”

The voice that responded was familiar but not one that Peter could immediately place.

A policeman, then, just not one that he rarely had dealings with.

_“The name, Peter…”_

And, of course, it was during this moment of weakness the Morse appeared out of nowhere.

“I need your help,” he announced by way of a greeting. “Thursday's out at Blenheim Vale.”

What?

Even in his current state Peter could recognise that something was wrong about that.

Why would he be out there at this time of night?

“I've the car outside. Come on.”

“Blenheim Vale?” Peter repeated, shaking his head firmly. “I can't.”

He honestly didn’t think he could.

It wasn’t that he wouldn’t go, not entirely…

He couldn’t.

Just the mere thought of returning to that hellish place had him struggling to breathe.

Caused his hands to tremble, to spark uncontrollably.

And Morse, well, he noticed everything just like he always did.

All that was left, then, was for his clever mind to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

“Little Pete?”

His wings, which had been held in what most of the men at Cowley station referred to as his _“avenging angel”_ pose dropped to the point that the tips came to rest upon the dirty floor.

“Myers couldn't remember your last name,” he murmured softly, dropping into the seat opposite Peter, even more of his feathers coming into contact with the ground. Peter didn’t like that, that they were being tainted because of him. It was wrong. “…were you there?”

Peter let out a shaky breath before nodding.

“To some of us bastards, it's more than just a name,” he managed to responded shakily, thinking of how easily everyone had spoken the name of that place. “Yes, I was there.”

It pained him to speak of it, to confirm Morse’s conclusions.

It hurt even more to see the pity in the handsome young man’s eyes.

He didn’t need pity.

He didn’t know what he did need but he knew that it wasn’t _pity_.

“The courts sent me there after I accidentally set my step-dads car and…well…my step-dad on fire,” he explained reluctantly, looking at the glasses on the table instead of the man he was talking to. “I declared all of this when I joined the force, juvenile record and all that, but…but if you don't think about something for long enough, you think you've forgotten.”

He spoke softly, not wanting to be overheard, and Morse leaned forwards accordingly. 

“But you don’t. And then…then one day, somebody comes along and…”

He broke off, unable to get the words out not matter how much he tried.

And Morse, dear, clever Morse, had already figured out who he was referring to.

“Deare?”

He nodded.

“There were four of them.”

Here Morse seemed somewhat surprised, frowning slightly.

“Deare, he was just a copper then,” Peter found himself somehow managing to explain, the beer seeming to churn in his guts as he offered up the names of the men who had ruined so many young lives. “Josiah Landesman, the new governor, Wintergreen and Doc Fairbridge.”

It was the last name that seemed to take Morse by surprise.

“Dr Fairbridge?”

“He knew what was going on and did nothing to stop it,” Peter forced out, tears pooling in his eyes as he took a drag from his cigarette to steady his nerves. It didn’t help as much as he hoped it would. “He covered up for them when they went too far, hurt us too much.”

Morse looked as though he’d swallowed something nasty.

Obviously he’d believed whatever tale the doctor had spun to claim his innocence.

“He was the one who caused this, you know?” Peter chuckled coldly, holding up his hand to watch the spark flickering in time with his rapidly changing emotions. “He liked to _tweak_ the suppressants they had all of us on, all of us poor mutants. He treated us like…like some sort of medical experiment, wanted to see if he could make them work better or last longer…”

Laughing bitterly as Morse swallowed loudly he added his conclusion,

“Just made it hurt more, in my experience.”

“…was George Aldridge a mutant?”

“We all were, the boys in my dormitory,” Peter explained, their faces appearing in the back of his mind. “It’s why we were so close. But those suppressants did and number on all of us. I doubt if there’s a mutant that passed through Blenheim Vale that has any sort of control.”

His expression was more thoughtful now, Peter noticed.

Still ashen, though.

“So Benny Topling and Nicholas Myers? They’re mutants?”

“Yes.”

“What about Mr and Mrs Portmore?”

“Henry?” Peter gasped, startled. “You’ve spoken to Henry?”

Morse nodded.

“I came across his wife laying flowers on the grounds of Blenheim Vale…”

“Flowers?” Peter murmured, frowning deeply. “Why would she…?”

“Apparently her brother…”

Morse trailed off, seemingly uncomfortable, and Peter knew what he was going to say.

“…hung himself from the branches of an old oak tree,” he finished for the other man, his voice coming out somewhat hollow. Morse nodded. “Eddie. That means Henry married…”

“Hilary Spencer, yes.”

“Oh, God…”

After a brief pause Morse enquired seriously,

“What about Standish? Was he involved?”

“No,” Peter denied honestly. “It was just the four of them.”

He couldn’t decide if Morse looked relieved or disappointed.

“I ran that dry-cleaning tag to ground,” he announced suddenly, pulling the offending item out of his pocket. Perhaps this was why he had subconsciously decided to bring it with him, he’d known that this or something like this would happen. “The coat belonged to the Doc.”

His hand shook as he held the tag up for Morse to see.

“George Aldridge went to him and he betrayed George Aldridge to his death,” he explained the conclusion that he’d come to. Morse sighed sadly, agreeing with him. “He always was a two-faced bastard. The others couldn't see it. Just me. Fairbridge was one of them all right.”

“Did Angela have any idea what was going on?”

“More than an idea, I think,” Peter sighed regretfully. “Some of them it wasn't just the lads. You just had to be young. Too young. Or a freak. They really liked the freaks…the mutants.”

He couldn’t help but glance at Morse’s wings.

They’d have loved him, loved destroying him.

“See, they wanted a name for whoever had burnt out Wintergreen's car,” he found himself explaining softly, putting the ticket in his pocket. Just in time too as the sparks increased. “And with my _pyrokinesis_ they…well they thought that I might have some it. They tortured me, trying to make my set fire to something but I…I couldn’t. The suppressants, you see...”

Morse nodded.

“So they wanted a name instead,” he continued, shuddering. “They…they…”

Someone dropped a glass.

That’s what the noise was, he knew that logically.

But his body reacted to the sound that his mind replaced it with.

That of the cane striking his back.

Wintergreen had been the one to wield it, putting so much power behind each blow that rather than creating the raised bruises that Peter had become used to by that point the cane sliced straight through his skin to create long bloody gashes. He’d screamed from the first one, much to Wintergreen delight. And Deare had been there, crouched in front of him as he’d clutched hold of the rings of the pommel horse in the institutions new gymnasium.

He hadn’t said a word at first, waiting until the sixth blow to restart his interrogation.

Alcohol had _definitely_ been a bad idea…

It made his memories too vivid, so vivid that he couldn’t help but groan and hunch over, his hands coming up instinctively to protect his head from the memory of the brutal treatment.

“So I told 'em,” he admitted tearfully. “I tried not to but I did. I told them it was Big Pete.”

Saying his friends name aloud, confessing that he had betrayed him, was too much.

He crumpled, weeping softly, and clutched at the back of his head.

“Look, we have a chance to bury them,” Morse announced. “All of them.”

Peter gasped.

Could they…

Could they really…

“Come on.”

He rose to his feet instinctively, obeying the command Morse had given.

Unfortunately he wasn’t as steady on his feet as he needed to be.

He stumbled, his thigh knocking the corner of the table which caused the empty glasses to rattle and clang together. Unfortunately the pain, the noise snd memories were too much.

His hands burst into flames causing several people to cry out fearfully.

Even Morse took an instinctive step back.

“I can't.”

His voice was wrecked.

People hurried get out of his way as he rushed past his friend as quickly as his unsteady legs could carry him, his burning hands held out in front if him like a crude offering to the Gods.

“I'm sorry, but I can't.”

He could feel Morse’s eyes upon him until he stumbled out into the street.

~ * ~


	9. Chapter Nine

** SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT  
** **CHAPTER NINE**

_“At first people refuse to believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see it can be done – then it is done and all the world wonders why it was not done centuries ago.” – France’s Hodgson Burnett_

He hadn’t meant to come here.

Not again.

And yet, here he was stumbling along the pavement towards Doctor Fairbridge’s house.

What was he going to do?

He didn’t know.

All he knew was that as he’d fled the pub he had been overcome by an urge to confront him, the man that had turned him into such a pitiful creature. He hated Deare and the others for the things they had done to his body, he truly did, but his hatred for Fairbridge and what he had done to his very DNA was something different, something more violent.

He’d never forget what they’d done but he had learned to live with it.

To cope with the nightmares.

But his lack of control, the fact that he still couldn’t rely upon his abilities…

That was all down to the literal poison that Fairbridge had pumped into his veins.

So, here he was.

Again.

Not in a car this time.

No, this time he was standing on the front step working up the courage to knock.

“Come on, Peter, don’t be such a coward…”

He raised his hand, no longer fully on fire but still sparked wildly, but it was too late.

Before he could knock the door was pulled open from the inside to reveal…

“Angela.”

“… _Little Pete_?”

Her mouth dropped open in shock as she blinked up at him.

“Not so little now,” he managed to get out, only slurring a little which was quite remarkable given the alcohol still in his system. “I’m…I’m here to see your father…I want…I need to…I…”

Something flickered in her eyes.

It took him a moment to realise that it was fear.

“I need him to apologise for what he did to me when I was a boy,” he pressed on. “Please…”

“He’s dead.”

Her words, clipped and precise, stopped him cold.

“I killed him.”

“…what?”

“I killed him,” she repeated, her voice hollow. “Wintergreen, too.”

“Wintergreen…”

Peter still couldn’t believe that the man was dead, despite having seen his body, and now…

“They deserved it,” Angela continued, her voice hardening with anger. “For what they did. My father…did you know he told me it was all a dream? Something I’d made up as a child?”

She scoffed bitterly.

“What child would make up a story about _their father_ selling their innocence to his friends?”

“Oh God…”

He should…

He should arrest her.

She’d just confessed to murder.

He had to…

“Come with me,” she interrupted his spiralling thoughts suddenly, gripping his upper arms in a surprisingly strong grip. “Help me finish this once and for all. I know where they are.”

“Landesman and Deare.”

She wanted to…

“Deare, he’s planning to frame the nice policeman who is looking into Georges murder.”

_“What?”_

Did she mean Thursday or Morse?

“My father told me,” she explained, oblivious to the fact that he was a policeman himself. He’d managed to avoid her at the crime scene, getting Morse to take her statement. “He’s set a trap so he can frame the nice one with the murder of his inspector and someone else.”

Morse.

Deare was going to frame Morse for…

“He’s going to kill both of them but we can stop him if we get there in time.”

“…get where?”

Even as he asked he realised that he already knew the answer.

“Blenheim Vale.”

Deare had lured Thursday there and Morse…Morse was heading there try and save him…

_“….fuck…”_

Releasing his arms she pulled the door shut behind her, hurrying down the steps, along the path that cut the front garden in half and out onto the pavement, forcing Peter to follow her or be left behind at the house. Once at the road she darted around a small red car, the keys jangling as she unlocked the drivers door, and then paused to look at him over the flat roof.

“Well? Are you coming?”

“…to do what?” he demanded. “Angela, _what are you going to do?”_

She fixed him with a terrifyingly cold look before reaching into her pocket and retrieving...

A gun.

She had a gun.

“Kill him first, of course.”

Even with the amount of alcohol he’d consumed he could recognise a psychotic break when he saw one and knew that he should stop her, she call for the police or an ambulance but…

Morse.

Morse was in danger.

And perhaps, if he was there, he could stop her.

He was a policeman, after all, and even if there was a small voice in the back of his mind telling him that they were getting everything they deserved it was still a criminal offence.

“I’m coming.”

_“Thank you.”_

Sliding into the drivers seat she reached across to unlock the passenger door, letting him into the car. It smelled very strongly of her perfume, he noticed, and a hint of cigarettes.

“…how could you work for him?” Peter found himself asking as she navigated the narrow roads as they crossed the city. “Wintergreen, I mean. If you remembered what he did…?”

“I didn’t remember until recently,” she answered softly. “I’ve had the same nightmare for years but didn’t realise that it was him until we were questioned about poor George. It…it triggered something new. I saw the man’s face in my nightmare that night and it was him.”

“And your father?”

“Remembering about Wintergreen was just the beginning,” she explained simply, turning onto the road which would eventually take them back to the place of their nightmares. “I can remember it all now. Everything they did to me. Everything they did to you poor boys.”

“I’m sorry.”

And he was.

If only she’d been allowed to properly escape, free of the things which had eventually brought it all back for her. Perhaps she would have been able to live a long, happy life.

“It hasn’t changed at all…”

Her words drew his gaze away from her and to the building they were now approaching.

She was right.

It hadn’t changed at all.

She pulled the car to a halt between the two police vehicles which were already abandoned in front of the buildings main entrance and just as she killed the engine a gunshot rang out.

“We’re too late.”

Peter was out of the car in an instant, scrambling across the gravel towards the doorway.

He heard a voice cry out in alarm from inside.

Morse.

That had been Morse.

Angela was by his side then, helping him to push open the stiff door.

“Uh-uh! Nothing you can do for him now.”

Deare.

It took all of his willpower not to throw up then and there.

“The early bird, I'm afraid.”

“Sir!” Morse’s panicked voice echoed around them as they made their way through the building, following the voices to what had once been the main offices. “Sir! You bastard!”

Peter had never heard Morse swear before.

“You _bastard!_ ”

“Names? Really,” Deare sneered from inside the room just as Peter put his arms out and pulled Angela to a halt, stopping her from just bursting in. Morse sounded angry but unhurt. That meant Deare had shot Thursday. “No _bon mots_? No _apposite Augustan valedictory_?”

He couldn’t risk Deare shooting Morse by accident should they startle him.

“Let me kill him!” Angela hissed in his ear. _“Peter!”_

“Wait!” he hissed back, moving to the right as he tried to see into the room without being seen. He could just about see Deare’s shadow... “You can’t kill him if you can’t see him.”

But…he was there to stop her from killing him…wasn’t he?

“I expected better from a Greats man,” Deare sneered. “Oxford material? Nah. Just a boy from the sticks with a chip on his shoulder and a library card. Where be your jibes now?”

“You're mad,” Morse gasped. “You can't seriously think you'll get away with this.”

“Actually I think they'll pin another medal on my chest.”

Deare sounded so confident in himself.

“History's written by the victor. Bad apples? That's you two, I'm afraid.”

His shadow moved.

 _He_ moved.

“In my version of events, at least.”

And there he was, dressed in an evening suit with his medals proudly on display.

Angela hissed sharply.

“And since that's all they'll have, it's rather all that counts.”

A groan sounded.

Thursday.

He was still alive.

“You see, when Chard told me you'd got away, I had to improvise,” Deare explained, his words sending a lump of what felt like lead into Peters churning stomach. Chard was _dirty_ , was in league with Deare. “Right now, every copper in the county is out looking for you.”

Angela brought her gun, a Webley revolver Peter noted, up ready to fire.

“Pity you won't be around to appreciate my solution.”

He should stop her.

He _should._

But then Deare raised his own gun and aimed it towards Morse…

“There, I'm afraid endeth the lesson.”

A gunshot rang out for the second time and for a long moment Peter was afraid that Angela hadn’t been the one to fire, the Morse had been hit…but it was Deare’s body that crumpled.

“Angela…”

He’d just let her murder someone.

And not just anyone, his former abuser.

No court would let him off without an _accessory to murder_ charge once they heard his story.

A siren, distant still, made itself known.

Reinforcements were coming.

Peter heard Morse scramble across the room.

“Stay with me, sir,” he pleaded worriedly as Peter and Angela entered the room, the poor murderess moving to stand over the body of her third victim. “Stay with me, sir. Sir? _Sir_?”

Peter, however, approached his colleague,

“Morse?”

“…Peter?”

He wasn’t surprised to see the confusion in other man’s eyes.

He’d said he wouldn’t come, after all.

“I…is he…?”

“He’s still alive,” Morse announced, pressing down on Thursday wound. “Sir. Stay with me.”

The sirens, for there was definitely more than one, grew louder.

Angela let out a sharp whimper.

“I haven’t finished…”

“Angela?”

Leaving Morse to care for Thursday, who was groaning weakly, Peter returned to her side.

“It's gonna be all right, sir,” Morse pleaded loudly. “Stay with me, sir! Stay with me!”

“It wasn't dreams,” Angela repeated her earlier statement, turning to gaze imploringly at Peter. “It was memories. My own father. I have to…I have to stop them but I can’t…I...”

She was devolving.

Her hand, the one holding the gun, trembled.

“You’ll have to do it, Little Pete…”

The gun was brought up to press the muzzle under her chin.

Peter jumped, imploring with her,

“Angela, put the gun down.”

“No more dreams.”

She whimpered, tears falling down her cheeks as she gazed at Peter,

“My poor lost boys...”

Her finger began to squeeze on the trigger...

“No!” Morse cried out helplessly as he realised what was happening. “No!”

“Angela!”

Reacting on instinct Peter reached out, wrestling the gun out from under her chin.

A third gunshot sounded.

Pain.

“Ow!” he hissed, his right arm becoming heavy at his side as blood blossomed just above the elbow, so much blood that it quickly began to drip from the tips of his fingers. _“Fuck!”_

“Peter?!” Morse called out, his voice surprisingly shrill. “You’ve been hit!”

“My arm,” Peter reassured him whilst pulling the gun out of Angela’s now lax hand, placing it on the ground and kicking it towards Morse. “It’s just my arm. Worry about Thursday.”

Amazingly it seemed that getting shot was an instant cure for his lingering drunkenness.

He was completely sober as he met Angela’s betrayed gaze.

“Why did you do that?” she demanded, pushing at his chest. “Why did you stop me?”

Allowing himself to be ruled by instincts once more he wrapped his arms around her, pulling Angela into a tight hug even as she continued to push and eventually strike out at his chest.

“You know…you know what they did!”

“I do.”

“Then _why?”_

“Because they don’t deserve to take your life too,” he answered her simply, wincing every time his bad arm was jostled in this new position. “They’ve already taken Big Pete. George.”

“I…”

“No more.”

And this was how Bright, Strange and the other officers they’d brought with them found the four of them; Morse cradling Thursday while Peter rocked a sobbing Angela back and forth.

“Jakes?” Bright called out, surprised to see him there. “What’s going on here?”

Peter met the Superintendents worried gaze.

“It’s a long story, sir,” he responded softly. “Might want to see to DI Thursday first.”

It was a mad rush of people after that, during which Angela refused to let go of him.

“Now, Sergeant,” Bright turned to him as the ambulance men began seeing to Thursday, dressing his wound and preparing to get him onto the stretcher they’d brought. “Explain.”

And so, haltingly, Peter told the Superintendent everything.

Everything about Blenhein Vale.

Everything about Deare.

About Wintergreen and Landesman.

About George and Doctor Fairbridge’s.

And, reluctantly, everything about Angela.

To say that Bright, and the others, were stunned was an understatement.

“She…?”

“She’s not well, sir, and I’ll take full responsibility for not stopping her from killing Deare.”

“Sounds to me like the bastard deserved it.”

“Sir?”

“Leave everything with me now, Sergeant.”

Peter couldn’t believe it.

Bright…

Bright understood.

Bright _agreed_ with him.

“Yes, sir.”

They all followed the ambulance men out of the room when they carried Thursday out, Peter wrapping his good arm around Angela’s waist as he all but had to lead her outside.

Once there he passed her over to one of the younger policemen, ordering him to stay with her and to keep an eye on her, implying without actually saying it that she was dangerous and vulnerable. He then returned to where Bright and Morse were stood by the ambulance.

Strangers booming voice interrupted the organised chaos,

“Come on, Tommy.”

A feeling of relief coursed through Peter as the Constable emerged with the missing boy.

“We, uh, found the boy in one of the top rooms, sir,” the gentle giant reported to Bright when he caught sit of the much smaller man. “He's got no recollection how he got here.”

Bright nodded thoughtfully before announcing,

“Let's get this young man back to his mother.”

“Sir,” Strange nodded. “Come on, Tommy, let's go. We'll make sure you're looked after.”

The doors of the ambulance were slammed shut once Thursday had been secured inside.

A moment later the familiar siren began to wail as the ambulance departed for the hospital.

Bright, in a rare moment of kindness towards his juniors, turned to reassure them,

“He's in the best of care.”

Then they were left alone as he headed inside to supervise the crime scene.

“You should probably get your arm seen to.”

“I will do. I just…”

Peter was cut off by the arrival of three police officers who he thought were from County,

“DC Morse?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Detective Inspector Gregson of Kidlington CID,” the lead officer introduced himself coldly to the young man before him. Peter frowned, not liking the tone of voice at all. “Endeavour Morse, I am arresting you for the murder of Chief Constable Rupert…”

“What?” he gasped loudly. “You’re…”

Morse was equally stunned,

“You're arresting me?”

The other two officer moved forwards to grab hold of his arms.

“You do not have to say…”

“You're…” Morse cried out, obviously panicking. “You've made a mistake!”

“…can be used in evidence.”

“Get your hands off me! You've made a mistake! _Get your hands off of me!”_

Peter moved, planting himself between the officer and their car.

They froze.

“You are making a grave mistake, Detective Inspector Gregson.”

Heat spread all over his skin.

He’d been amazed earlier by the fact that not a single spark had appeared when they’d been witnessing Deare’s filthy confession or when he’d been facing down poor Angela.

He didn’t try to hold them back now.

Anything to get them to listen to him, he reasoned.

“ACC Deare murdered Chief Constable Standish in an effort to frame Morse for a crime he didn’t commit, this stopping him from exposing the fact that Deare and several others were corrupt,” he announced as clearly as he could, his words drawing almost as much attention as the flames did, the dancing tendrils of fire covering his entire body. Even his eyes glowed.

“I witnessed his confession myself, alongside Morse and one other. That’s two independent statements to vouch for the fact that Morse is being framed so you will release him. Now.”

“Jakes?”

Thankfully someone, probably panicking, had hurried inside to bring Bright out.

“Jakes, what is going on here?”

“Sir, these officers are attempting to arrest Constable Morse for a crime that ACC Deare confessed to before he was murdered,” he explained as clearly as he could, still on fire. “I witnessed the confession myself and will testify in court should that become necessary.”

Even if testifying meant the end of his career.

Saving Morse from a wrongful prison sentence was more important than his future.

“Well, you heard my sergeant,” Bright announced calmly. “Release my man. Immediately.”

Gregson obviously didn’t want to but faced with a superior officer he had no choice.

“Yes, sir.”

Morse was released and the three officer slunk off with their tails between their legs.

For once, for the first time in his life, in fact, Peter was able to get the flames under control with a simple thought, watching as they shrunk and eventually disappeared altogether. His clothes were, unfortunately, completely ruined and were literally nothing but charred rags.

Morse gazed at him with those big blue eyes of his,

“Thank you, Peter.”

Peter found himself responding simply,

“I didn’t do anything but tell the truth.”

“You came,” Morse responded, equally as simply as he reached out to rest his hand on Peters good arm. “I know what that must have taken. And now you stopped them from…”

He sighed, his eyes getting noticeably damp.

“Just… _thank you.”_

What else could Peter say but,

“You’re welcome.”

“Jakes?” Bright interrupted them suddenly, concerned. “You appear to be bleeding.”

Peter glanced down.

The entire sleeve of his shirt, jacket and coat had burned away to reveal the grisly wound.

“Just a flesh wound, sir,” he explained, using his other hand to test the skin around the entry wound. He could reach the exit wound just then. “DI Thursday was the priority. I can wait.”

“And wait you have. Now, Morse, get this man to the hospital and then stay with him,” their commanding officer ordered sharply. “I shall join you once I can to take your statements.”

“Yes, Sir.”

~ * ~


	10. Epilogue

** SECOND STAR TO THE RIGHT  
** **EPILOGUE**

_“To live will be an awfully big adventure.” – J.M. Barrie_

They went to the press.

They had to, or so Bright had said when he’d joined Morse and Peter at the hospital just as the injured man was being admitted for the night, or Deare’s “ _friends in high places_ ” would be quick bury the truth in order to keep the mud from staining them when it started flying.

So Morse called in a favour.

“You understand that this could have unpleasant repercussions,” Morse warned the woman who had accompanied him into Peters hospital room the following morning. Her response was to roll her eyes, settle herself into the uncomfortable seat beside Peters bed and take out her notebook and pencil. “Thank you. Peter, may I introduce Miss Frazil, editor of the Oxford Mail. Miss Frazil, this is Detective Sergeant Jakes, your main source for the article.”

“Pleasure.”

Peter recognised her from several crime scenes over the years but had never personally spoken to her, leaving that to his superiors or the constables depending on the situation.

He nodded, his own murmur of greeting seizing in his throat.

Could he do this?

Could he lay it bar for the whole word to know?

Yes.

He could.

For Big Pete.

For George.

For Angela.

“Whenever you’re ready, Sergeant.”

“Peter,” he muttered hoarsely. “If…if we’re doing this you should call me Peter…”

Miss Frazil offered him a gentle smile, nodding as she amended her earlier statement,

“Then, whenever you’re ready, Peter.”

A rush of air escaped him.

“I don’t…I don’t know where to start…”

“I always find that the beginning, wherever you think that may be, if a good place to start.”

Yes.

The beginning.

So that meant,

“I was twelve-years-old when I came into my mutation. I had a few… _issues_ with control…”

“Not uncommon when someone presents so young,” Miss Frazil murmured. “Go on.”

“I ended up setting my step-dads car on fire…with him in it…”

And from there the whole sordid tale of his time at Blenheim Vale poured out of him.

Morse, who had known some but not all of it, looked pained.

Miss Frazil, despite taking notes the entire time, looked as though she was going to be sick by the time he reached the day that he had betrayed Big Pete and his subsequent transfer.

“…I can see why you want to get this out in the open, Morse,” she murmured, her pencil flying across the sixth page of her notebook she had filled since Peter began talking. “I can’t believe I didn’t…I _knew_ Wintergreen. I’ve interviewed him. I _liked_ him. And all the time…”

“We can’t let this be buried again,” Morse announced firmly. “Not by Deare’s friends. Not by Wintergreen’s. Not by Doctor Fairbridge’s. And especially not by Landesman; he’s the only one left that we can bring to justice even if it’s only through the ruination of his name.”

“Then I think it’s time we talk about your most recent case.”

“I suppose it really began with the disappearance of Tommy Cork…”

Explaining the twists and turns of the case took the combined effort of Peter and Morse, neither of them wanting anything to be left out. Normally when releasing a statement they’d leave details out on purpose; this time they wanted every little thing to be known.

“That poor girl…”

Peter was relieved that, having heard it all, Miss Frazil seemed to sympathise with Angela.

“Do you think any of the others would be willing to talk to me? Nicholas? Henry? Or Be…”

“Not Benny,” Morse interrupted her quickly. “He’s…he’s not strong enough…”

This announcement filled Peter with an all I compassion feeling of sadness and regret.

It hadn’t surprised him to learn that Benny had become a ventriloquist, using his gift to animate the dummy in a way that no one else could, and sadly it hadn’t surprised him to learn that the only way he could speak even vaguely of his past was through the dummy.

No, Benny wasn’t strong enough to become one of Miss Frazil’s sources.

“I understand,” she murmured, jotting a couple of last minute notes down before beginning to pack her things away. She’d gotten through almost her entire notebook, Peter noticed. “Right. If I’ve got any chance of getting this out today I need to make a move; interviews to do, leads to chase down and a complicated article to create. Morse, thank you for trusting me with this. It means a lot. And Sergeant Jakes? I will keep your name out of the article for as long as possible but eventually I will be required to site my sources. I assure you that I’ll let you know in advance of your name being published so that you can be best prepared.”

“Thank you.”

The first article was published the following morning.

It featured his statements but not his name.

An _undisclosed source close to the heart of the investigation_ was cited instead.

Morse’s statements were not anonymous, however, as the younger man had agreed to be the police representative with DI Thursday still unconscious following his life-saving surgery.

A third statement from another anonymous source backed up Peters and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was from Nicholas or Henry, wondered which had had the courage to speak.

Interspersed throughout the article were details and facts that Miss Frazil had turned up, all of them terribly incriminating and easily verified. The article finally closed with a startling revelation; a statement from the journalist herself clearly stating that “ _she wouldn’t be bullied, threatened or bribed into keeping such an important subject quiet and that should anyone else come to her place of work to threaten her a second time she had already sent a copy of her further articles to the national newspapers ready to be published in due course._ ”

“They threatened her,” Peter murmured once he and Morse, who had come to escort him home from the hospital, had both finished reading the article. “And she still went ahead?”

“Miss Frazil isn’t a woman that is easily deterred.”

Morse was right, of course.

In the days that followed more and more articles appeared, both locally and nationally, and then on the day he returned to work a telephone call from the journalist warning him that she would be publishing the names of her sources in her next article and to be prepared.

He felt sick all day as a result.

Thursday was out of danger, thankfully, although he still had a bullet lodged in his chest as the doctors had been worried that it was too close to his heart to try and remove it. Due to this it would be another month _at least_ before he could possibly return to work and so in the meantime Peter, his own arm in a sling for another week, would be taking up the slack.

The opportunity to prove himself would have once filled him with pride.

Now he just worried.

What was everyone going to say when they learned the truth about Blenheim Vale?

About Deare?

He’d already heard someone muttering that Morse shouldn’t be walking around as free as a bird when he was suspected of murder even though the investigation had corroborated the fact that he had been framed. This information wasn’t common knowledge yet, however.

Would he lose their respect?

Possibly.

Would he be forced to leave?

Probably.

And then came the day that his name appeared in black and white ink alongside one of his many statements about Blenheim Vale and then again, later on in the article, when he was quoted regarding Deare’s involvement in the abuse and subsequent death. There was even a photograph, one of all of the boys who had been at Blenheim with him, their gaunt faces staring hopelessly up at him. He really had been small for his age, he thought to himself as he traced his finger over the picture, seeking out George, Benny, Nicholas, Henry, Eddie…

And Big Pete.

“You ok?” Morse enquired softly. Everyone was staring at him, Peter realised, as he sat at his pristine desk reading the article they’d all already read. “Peter? You look a bit peaky…”

“I’m fine,” he murmured, trying to offer the winged detective a reassuring smile before he rose from his seat and turned to face the majority of the people staring at him. “Every word in this article and the previous articles are true. Deare abused me and many others when I was a child. He and several others, including DI Chard who as I’m sure you’re aware is under arrest, were involved in the murders of Eric Patterson and George Aldridge. I then failed to stop a young woman who he’d also abused from killing him and two of our other abusers.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed his clipped statement.

“If any of you have a problem with me you can take it to Superintendent Bright.”

Again, silence, broken eventually by Constable Strange,

“…never did like Deare. He always felt a bit too…slimy…for me…”

A couple of other uniformed officers murmured in agreement.

“And Chard, well, if he’s as dirty as you say then he deserves everything they do to him. We’re meant to be here to help people, to protect them. Not to betray them like that.”

Another murmur of agreement, louder this time.

“So don’t you go worrying about any of us having a problem with you, Sarge,” the gentle giant concluded, offering Peter a genuine smile. “Right, I’ve got to go so if you’ll excuse me.”

And just like that the spell that had been over the room was broken and everyone returned to their normal duties, others following Strange out to start their beats whilst most began sorting out their paperwork or discussing the new cases that they were attempting to solve.

And that was that.

More articles followed, as did several court cases as people were charged.

Chard.

A couple of his close colleagues who had been in league with him and Deare.

Landesman.

And then, finally, Angela.

As expected Peter was called to testify in each case alongside Morse, Thursday and Bright.

Each day in court was harder than the one before, more and more press arriving to watch.

At Landesmans trial he was unprepared for the other witnesses who were called alongside him even though he’d known, logically, that they’d be there; Nicholas, Henry and Benny.

They seemed equally as stunned to see him.

Peter was somewhat relieved that they didn’t get the opportunity to talk at the trial.

He wasn’t ready to face them.

Not yet.

“Why?” Morse enquired with a frown as the two of them celebrated the guilty verdict at the end of the three day trial with a pint at their local, the alcohol just enough to get Peter to admit that he’d avoided bumping into the others on his way out. “They want to see you.”

“They won’t after they find out that I was the one to betray Big Pete…”

He was stunned when Morse reached across the small round table to take hold of his hand.

“You were a child,” he intoned firmly, his fingers tightening around Peters own. “A _child_ that was literally tortured for information and of all people they are the only ones who can truly understand what you went through. They’ll forgive you, I know they will and so do you...”

“I’ve missed my chance though, haven’t I?” Peter said at length, grateful that Morse didn’t remove his hand. The warmth of the other man’s skin was both pleasant and grounding. “I doubt I’ll ever see them again, not unless they’re called to testify at Angela’s trial as well.”

And that, of course, was precisely what happened.

Angela, after they’d all given their evidence with Peter being saved until last as he had the most evidence to give regarding the murder changers against her, was found guilty of three counts of murder but was, mercifully, found to be _non compos mentis_ or _not of sound mind._

This meant that whilst she would still spend the rest of her life behind bars it would be in a psychiatric hospital where she would receive the help and care that she needed to recover.

She wept as she was led away, tears of fear and of gratitude but never of regret, her gaze finding Peters and holding it until she was gone from view. Only then did Peter realise that he too was crying, silent tears falling down his ashen cheeks, and quickly wiped them away.

“…Little Pete?”

The voice came from behind him, unfamiliar and familiar all at once.

“Benny,” turning he found them all approaching him slowly, as though they were afraid they would startle him. A fair assessment, if he was honest. “Nicholas. Henry. You look…well…”

They did, even Benny.

In fact they look as though a weight has been lifted from their shoulders.

“We found Big Pete.”

Those four simple words were like a physical punch to Peters gut.

They’d…

He choked loudly, his legs buckling beneath him and it was only Morse’s timely intervention that saved him from crumpling to the ground, his surprisingly strong arms wrapping around Peters waist and pulling him back to rest against his chest. A chair appeared, from where he didn’t know, and more than one set of gentle hands guided him to sit with his head between his knees, a single hand rubbing his back as a voice ordered him to take slow, deep breaths.

“Good,” the whole unfamiliar female voice murmured. “That’s good, Peter.”

“I’m sorry,” Henry apologised. “I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that.”

“Then why did you?”

“I don’t know,” He Ray answered honestly. “It just…came out…”

“I’ll give you _just came out_ , Henry Portmore, shocking this poor young man like that,” she scolded him even as her gentle hands encouraged Peter to sit upright. “That’s better, now.”

“M’sorry…”

“Don’t you go apologising,” she told him. “It was my fool of a husbands fault for springing it on you like that. We’ve been holding an archaeological dig for the past few months, officially looking for evidence of an ancient roman settlement but unofficially looking for Big Pete.”

“…you’re Eddies sister…”

She nodded.

“Hilary,” she supplied, offering him her hand to shake. “Pleased to meet you, Pete.”

“Peter,” he corrected her softly. “I go by Peter now.”

“Or Sergeant, apparently,” Nicholas murmured. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“And this is Edward,” Hilary announced brightly, turning to the pram that Peter hadn’t noticed before and retrieving a baby dressed in a blue romper suit. “Here. He won’t bit.”

And, suddenly, Peter found himself with an armful of baby.

“Oh.”

What if he burned him?

Peter felt himself beginning to panic, gazing down at the child’s surprisingly calm face.

What would she do that?

Why would she trust him with her son without even knowing him?

“He’s not a bomb, you know?” she chuckled. “You don’t have to look so frightened.”

“It’s not that,” Peter gasped sharply. “It’s…I have…trouble…”

A hand settled on his shoulder, warm and comforting.

Morse.

“Peter still struggles with controlling his powers after the treatment you all suffered at Blenheim Vale,” he explained simply, squeezing Peters shoulder gently. His next words might have been addressed to everyone but they were definitely meant for Peter. “He’s been improving, however, in the weeks since this all finally came out into the open so I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. Well, nothing more the normal amount of worry you’d feel having a complete novice when it comes to babies holding your child.”

His words caused all of them to chuckled, even Peter.

“Here, let me help,” Hilary murmured, reaching out move her son around until the happy little boy was sat with his back resting against Peters chest. “That’s his favourite position.”

“We’re hoping to bury him and George together,” Nicholas explained softly, returning to their earlier subject of conversation. “Once your fellow police officers release the bodies.”

“Will you come?” Benny asked suddenly, frowning slightly. “To the funeral?”

“I…”

Could he?

 _Should_ he?

A look around at their hopeful expressions, each one completely earnest and open, and the feel of the gentle hand still resting reassuringly on his shoulder had him nodding his head.

“Yes. I’ll be there.”

It was Morse that suggested they contact the station with the details of the funeral, an arrangement that allowed Peter to keep his home address private for a little bit longer.

Perhaps, in time, he’d share it with them but for now he needed his safe space.

The fact that Morse recognised this filled him with a pleasant warmth.

Passing the baby up to his mother when she reached out for him was an odd feeling that Peter didn’t think he’d ever become used to, the innocent child feeling so fragile to him.

Hilary and Henry, passing the child between them, didn’t seem to share his feelings.

Then again they handled their son every day so we’re probably used to it.

It wasn’t until after they’d parted ways, Morse helping Peter to stand and leading him out past the gathered reporters to where he’d parked the car, that Peter realised that he hadn’t told them about the part he had played in Big Pete’s disappearance and subsequent death.

And he had to tell them.

He…

He needed them to forgive him like Morse said they would…

He needed them to forgive him because Big Pete no longer could…

“Fancy a pint?”

“Not really,” Peter answered honestly. “Think I should just head home.”

Morse nodded, understanding, and set about driving them back to Peters flat.

“You know I’m here for you, Peter,” the winged detective announced suddenly as he guided the car around a particularly sharp turn not too far from Peters home. “If you need me…”

“Thank you.”

The car came to a halt in front of the building which contained Peters flat.

“…would you like to come up? I’ve got beer in if you still want that drink?”

Morse paused for a moment, his sincere gaze meeting Peter’s in the dwindling light of day, before finally nodding and following Peter inside the building and up to his small apartment.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Peter murmured, making his way into the kitchen to collect two bottles of beer. Returning to the front room he paused, his stomach giving an unusual lurch as he took in the sight of Morse reclining in his favourite chair, his angel wings partially extended so that they could drape over the chairs arms. “Here; it’s all I’ve got I’m afraid.”

He extended the drink for Morse to take.

“It’s fine,” Morse responded with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

For a long moment they just sat together, Peter taking a seat in his second best chair, and merely enjoyed the silence after spending the last few weeks going from work to the court house and back again, keeping up with the current investigations which were mercifully a few petty thefts that hadn’t taken much to solve and one assault and battery. Thankfully that had simply been a case of finding the guilty party rather than trying to identify them.

“…will you come with me?” Peter suddenly found himself asking. “To the…to the funeral?”

“Of course,” Morse responded without hesitation. “Anything you need.”

“Anything?”

Morse looked understandably perplexed by his startled exclamation.

Why had he said that out loud?

Why had…

“Anything.”

Oh.

Morse sounded completely sincere.

So, what was it that had prompted him to clarify what was on offer from his friend?

What did he want?

It hit him suddenly, unexpectedly.

He wanted…comfort…

“I…” he hesitated, his eyes stinging. “I need…”

“Anything, Peter.”

“…a hug…”

If Morse was startled by his mumbled request he didn’t show it, merely placed his drink aside and rose to his feet. There he paused, arching a single eyebrow towards Peter, and spread his arms wide, his invitation clear. Peter’s body moved before he even gave in the conscious thought, all but throwing his own nearly empty bottle aside in his haste to tuck himself against the younger man’s chest, a sound akin to a whine breaking free of his own.

Gentle arms tightened around his body, just enough to be comforting but not tight enough to be in any way restricting. His face ended up pressed into the side of Morse’s neck, the light stubble covering the detectives skin scratching against his own equally stubbled skin.

And then, in a moment of perfection that he could never have asked for as he didn’t know he needed it, Morse ever so carefully wrapped his beautiful white wings around them both.

“Oh…”

The tears came unbidden, unwanted, but sadly almost certainly necessary.

Peter had never been comforted.

He’d never been hugged like this, not even as a young child; his mother was always too busy caring for his siblings or looking after the house and his step-father, well, he’d hated Peter.

No one had held him after the horrors of Blenheim Vale.

“I’m sorry…” he found himself apologising. “I didn’t mean to…I didn’t intend…”

Morse shushed him, one his hands moving to cradle the back of Peter’s head.

“I said anything, Peter, and I meant it.”

How long Morse held him for he wasn’t sure.

He said nothing more, just held him and occasionally rocked him from side to side.

Peter wept almost constantly.

Sometimes softly…

Sometimes loudly…

Sometimes so badly that he couldn’t breathe…

And then, at long last, his tears ended and he pulled away from his friend.

It was dark outside.

“How long…?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Morse brushed his query aside. “Something tells me you needed that.”

Peter nodded, wiping at his cheeks with his fingers until suddenly a cool cloth appeared to gently wipe away the tracks of his tears, careful not to aggravate the red raw skin beneath.

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” Morse murmured. “Now, how about I pop down the fish and chip shop? I don’t know about you but I’m absolutely starving and a fish supper sounds brilliant to me.”

Peter nodded, taking the cloth off of Morse and continuing to dab at his sore eyes.

It turned out to be the first of many fish suppers for the two of them.

Life didn’t become easy overnight.

The funeral of Big Pete and George was one of the hardest things Peter had ever done, his confession to his childhood friends a required evil. Morse had been right, though; they’d forgiven him even before he’d finished tearful apologising for betraying Big Pete to Deare.

Following the funeral the old friends became new friends, reintegrating themselves into each other’s lives. It didn’t seem like much to them but from an outsiders point of view, namely Morse, the change that it brought about was immense, each of them benefiting in some ways. Even Hilary who was finally able to say goodbye to her brother thanks to them.

Thursday returned to work, the bullet wound giving him some trouble, but it was good to have their superior back with them. It meant that everything was getting back to normal.

Morse and Peter continued to become closer, their friendship becoming the kind that other police officer spoke of enviously. He never intended for it to become anything more, never expected it to, and yet after a particularly cruel case when he asked for comfort, as had become their habit when things became too much for him, Peter had found himself being kissed. It had been as though the world was remade new in that instant as he allowed his friend to cradle him in the safety of his arms and wings and kiss all of the bad things away.

It was still illegal, of course, for two men to love one another as they came to.

This made things somewhat challenging but neither of them were quitters.

They persevered.

And they triumphed.

**~ THE END ~**


End file.
